Let the sky fall
by Anloquen
Summary: A collection of Endverse one-shots exploring the relationship between Dean and Cas in the post-Croatoan-apocalypse future. Mainly angsty, some heartwarming, some sad. There will be no plot per se, though the one-shots are intended to take place in the same universe and timeline. Established Destiel. No fluff, no smut.
1. Chapter 1

Dean grunts, stretching his arms and simultaneously trying to make that damned teeny-tiny part of his spine snap back into its place. He isn't a spring chicken anymore; the dragging on days of labor affected him more than he'd like to admit, which fills him with a mixture of embarrassment and regret. There are people much older than him and in much worse shape - famished, wounded, ill - who worked equally hard. All the more reason for him not to complain.

The hunter has to admit that they all did better than he'd expected. The fence is strong and tall, watchtowers are reasonably placed and sturdy (though peculiarly ugly), the area around them cleared of trees and grubbed, salt plowed into soil. Barrels of crude oil and gasoline lie in long trenches near the lower course of the river, ready to be buried in sand or flooded in case of fire. There are three power generators. Apart from that, solar panels have proven pretty easy to come by when one knew where to look, so Dean doesn't have to worry about the dreaded darkness that would allow all kinds of creatures to sneak into the camp. They have six functional vehicles, including four off-roaders. The 'geek squad', as he liked to call two engineers, a wannabee chemist and a biotechnologist he saved from a factory surrounded by Croats has even managed to plan and start assembling a mini water purification plant. They are safe.

They are safe.

Dean leans against a warm, rough wall of a wooden cabin and slowly slumps onto a stack of ammo crates as the awareness washes over him. Damn it.

Engaged in trying to keep everyone alive and in line, he's almost forgotten how bad it is. He's almost forgotten about this cold, sinking feeling he's been living with for years now; almost getting used to it, like to a chip of metal embedded in bone that hurts only when one has time to remember about it. So this is how it's gonna be. Hideouts, dealing with refugees, scouting the area for survivors, digging in mud, looting, keeping guards, trying to survive on canned food and game (unless someone of his people knows how to grow crops, which he doubts). Trying to avoid the subject, trying to avoid disillusioning those who still believed it is temporary. Until the end.

Dry gravel grates under light, but sure steps. Dean lifts his gaze to see a can of beer held almost in front of his face.

"Thanks, Cas," he mutters before pressing the metal against his temple. It is colder than he expected, "Did Jeff get these refrigerators to work yet?"

"No. I chilled the beer in the river," the former angel plops onto the crates next to Dean with a second can in his hand. A pop followed by a fizz reminds the hunter to open his own beer. He can recognize a hint of musty sludge before it is washed away by cool, watery, slightly sweet beverage. The beer tastes only slightly better than the drops of river water he forgot to wipe from the lid of the can.

"Tastes like dog piss..." it is a conversation starter rather than a complaint. Castiel shrugs, then tilts his head back, squinting in the evening sun. Winchester follows his example. One could think that the moment was idyllic - a warm, sunny afternoon, a cabin in a forest, two guys sipping chilled beer after a long day of digging, sawing and hammering. No sound is coming from the rest of the camp apart from some hushed conversations, cans popping or bottles clinking. The people will probably be calm and satisfied for a while, enjoying the weather and resting, before they realize they don't know what to do next. Dean expects them to start coming and asking in about half an hour.

He knows he will welcome these questions. Another distractor. Another opportunity to add one bead to his rosary of small accomplishments; baby steps he's managed to take. Whenever the panic strikes, he will be able to brood about them, recall them one by one, recite them like a litany until he finally comes down enough to breathe without the pain filling his lungs with fire.

"Cas?" he sighs, ready to start planning next steps right away.

"Yes?"

"Looks like we're gonna have to arrange the camp today. This big clubhouse by the main lane... It'd make a good hospital. What'ya think?"

"I don't know, Dean," the ex-angel replies wearily, "You will need some kind of gathering hall to announce your will, but perhaps hospital is more important."

Dean snorts.

"To announce my will?"

"Govern the camp."

"Aren't we gonna have some democracy here?" Winchester challenges with no hint of humor.

"Democracy isn't effective during wars. This is war, Dean," Castiel states serenely; the hunter has an impression that this assessment of the situation brings peace to the fallen angel. War is something he knows best. Two sides, battlefront, clear intentions, clear orders. In a way it is less confusing and less grueling than the mess that made them stray for months.

"Besides," Cas adds with his gaze fixed on the can he has placed between his feet, "people have already accepted you as their leader. This is a natural reaction. In times of a crisis an individual starts to act and the rest acknowledges his authority. It has always been this way."

"Yeah. I guess you know these things," Winchester murmurs blankly, a bit confounded by Castiel's moony tone. The fallen angel continues:

"King Arthur, Charlemagne, Julius Caesar...they all had to square up to the situation, that's all."

"Woah, hold your horses. How did we get from choosing a barrack for a hospital to comparing me to king Arthur?"

There is no answer. Dean stands up with a grunt, then takes a look around while his friend finishes his beer. All the refugees have been sleeping in one large barrack or in tents since they had found the camp, because Dean wanted to avoid wasting time on assigning lodgings before they secured the area, but now it is high time to find a place to stay. The men have been sitting next to a cabin in the middle of the camp, so the hunter decides to check it out first. Ragged, gray planks that make the porch's floor and stairs squeak when he is running up the stairs and getting in, but otherwise the construction is quite sturdy. There is no mold or must inside; it looks like most of the furniture - a table, two chairs, a coat rack and a couple of shelves - can be salvaged.

"How about this one?" he calls out to Cas, who joins him after displaying his reluctance and general dejection with a loud, deep sigh. Dean wonders where the guy could have learned this passive aggression; the moment he takes time to ask himself that question the answer appears obvious.

"What about this one?" Cas grumbles.

"Fit for a king, huh?" Dean asks caustically, "It's in the middle of the camp, if I stay here I'll have the whole area within earshot."

Castiel bites his lips, leaning against the door jamb with his legs crossed and watching Dean explore the cramped cabin. Winchester slowly clears a rectangle of floor by kicking debris, dried leaves and rags out of it.

"You'll need to chose your side of the, uhm, bed area," he tries to call some semblance of smile onto his face, but he fails.

"What do you mean?" there is strange insincerity in Cas's voice; Dean can't tell whether it's alarm or outrage.

"You're staying with me, right?" the hunter asks, distressingly aware that his attempts not to let his insecurity show are futile. He feels dizzy when Cas's piercing, knowing look glosses over his face to rest on Dean's eyes, "Right?" the hunter repeats gutturally. He knows that if he had to utter more than one syllable, his voice would break.

After a chillingly long pause, the ex-angel pushes himself off the door jamb to straighten up.

"Yes, I am," he nods sadly "I'll bring our things from the tent."

He returns a couple of minutes later, carrying a backpack and two duffel bags, heavy with iron, steel and silver. Dean never had many clothes and after becoming human Castiel learned the same habit. Weapon is what they both really value.

The ex-angel lays the bags carefully on the dusty, squeaking floor near the door before approaching Dean, who has already gathered all the debris into one large pile. Cas puts his hand on his friend's shoulder.

"So this is it," he states blankly, "home."

"Home," Dean echoes with a bitter edge in his voice, "Damnit..."

A slight pressure of Cas's hand makes him turn slowly to face his friend; afraid that he'll meet Cas's keen, ruthful look Dean runs his hands down his face, trying to rub the dejection and sorrow away. He can't. When he feels a gentle tug and Castiel's other arm around him, he can't but sink into this embrace and press his forehead against Castiel's.

"Man, it could have been so good. So good..." he whispers.

"I know, Dean. I..." Cas's voice is caught in his throat; he pushes Dean away and gives Dean's arms one quick, reassuring squeeze before turning around to leave, "I'll bring the rest of the bags. It's getting dark."

"Yeah, right..." Dean's voice is flat and hoarse; the only thing that alleviates his shame is the certainty that Castiel will fall in with his game, pretending that he never saw Dean's moment of weakness, that nothing ever happened. Like he always does.

He is safe as long as he doesn't allow himself to look into Cas's eyes that always watch him with this unworldly devotion and sorrow; that always remind him that no matter how hard he tries, Castiel knows everything and understands everything. He will always understand.

"Yeah," Dean repeats blankly, "It's getting dark."


	2. Chapter 2

_Marines are dispersing - there is nothing left for them to do. The sound of siren cuts through early morning's silence, flushing dozens of seagulls out of heavy fog that lurks above clammy rocks and concrete. A flurry of confused, scared birds circle over the harbor; their pitiful squeals add to the clamor, the roar of powerful engines and ugly, slurping sound of water torn by lazy propellers. A rusty hull grazes the quay with thundering scrape; nobody cares enough to try to maneuver carefully. As the ship crawls out of the port, those who got on it can finally stop running for their lives._

 _She is slightly overburdened, but it doesn't matter - the sea is calm and it will take only a few hours for the ship to reach her destination: one of the islands that haven't been attacked by the croatoan virus yet. What does matter is that the local crisis center managed to dispatch another ship with survivors towards safety. Besides people - scientists, doctors and engineers valuable to the society - she carries medical and scientific equipment needed to establish a temporary laboratory designed to find a vaccine for croatoan virus._

 _Most of the refugees leave the shore with hope tinted with anxiety. Only one of them seems suspiciously calm. Instead of praying, crying or nervously telling bad jokes to cover his nervousness he watches the deck with keen eyes and stoic composure._

 _Dean would have spotted it. Any hunter would have spotted it. All it takes is to say "christo" to see his eyes darken and his face contort in fury, but no one of the escorted survivors knows; nobody imagines that croatoan could be anything more than just a disease. There is no one who could prepare holy water or recite the exorcism. Though protected by armed soldiers, the people on board are defenseless._

 _In the morning silence there is a ringing snap. A few minutes later a woman cuts her finger trying to remove the broken glass from the deck. When the ship reaches her destination, the only sane person left is the demon who steers her gently into the harbor. A few seconds after hordes of Croats spill onto the island, a smudge of black smoke leaves the man's mouth. There is nothing left to see to. Croatoan is doing its job._

Dean wakes up with a jolt, panting and covered in thick, fetid sweat. It takes him a while to unscramble the mayhem in his mind. Finally, he can attribute every stimulus to its source. The grid of lurid blueish light is moonlight seeping through a barred window. The scrape of gravel is guards circling the camp. This steady, slow breath is Cas, who must have come back into the cabin while Dean slept.

He runs his palms down his sweaty face and turns to his side. Cas lays curled up on the far edge of their bed with his back turned to Dean, covered with a separate blanket. For a moment Dean feels compelled to wake him up, to tell him how terrified he is. The same dream has haunted the leader for months. Though his imagination lets the tragedy unfold in various places and circumstances, the pattern is always the same. People almost reaching safety. "Civilian" soldiers - Dean couldn't help thinking about all the non-hunters as civilians - taking all conceivable precautions and failing; failing miserably because they have no clue what they are up against. The direful awareness of how easy it would be to avert the danger if Dean was there to help instead of trying to find the colt and kill Lucifer.

Doubt keeps gnawing at his mind even when he is awake. He keeps coming up with all possible reasons to believe that killing Lucifer is the only way to stop the Apocalypse, but in the end he has nothing but his own ruminations. There is nobody there to answer his questions. Will the world ever get back to normal? Will croatoan stop spreading the moment Lucifer dies? Is it possible to restore political and economic stability after all of this? Is there anything left to fight for? Maybe Cas is right, maybe Dean doesn't want to save people anymore. Maybe it is just about revenge, about quenching this thirst for blood. Maybe it is about ending this feverish, stomach-turning anxiety that keeps scorching him from the inside and chilling blood in his veins as long as there is another low point he could hit, as long as he hasn't hit the rock bottom. Maybe it is about this steadfast certainty that his life will end the moment he pulls the trigger; he simply couldn't live with Sammy's blood on his hands and God, how he craves relief. This bleak, dark, cold, absolute relief that only death can bring.

Or maybe he is just lost beyond return. There is one thing that could bring him back home, but he doesn't dare to ask for it.

It would be so easy. All he needs is to put his hand on Castiel's shoulder and pull or shake gently, or call the angel's name when Dean's lips are so close to Cas's ear. The longing is almost physically painful. He wants to hear the angel's deep, calming voice, to listen to his lies that Cas somehow can tell so convincingly: that maybe, just maybe there is God who will show up in the last possible moment to set things right... or at least so that Dean could spit him in the face.

He fights this urge off. Sleep is rare luxury these days, especially for those who know what is going on. Especially for Cas. Waking him when he's just managed to drink away or fend off all the nightmares perched on his shoulder feels like a crime to Dean. Instead, he pulls himself closer and wraps one arm around Cas's shoulders, he even manages to slip his hand under the blanket to gingerly stroke Cas's chest. The fallen angel stirs uneasily and grunts, but doesn't fully wake up. His hand moves; he grips Dean's wrist unknowingly and pulls him closer to nestle his back against Dean's chest. The man cradles his head against Cas's nape; he inhales deep to find his scent underneath this acidic smell of fresh sweat. There is a vague aroma of rose and patchouli stuck to his dark hair. It doesn't take him long to remember Anouk, that dreamy, frail girl who kept talking about energies, incarnations, mantras, and karma; courting Castiel almost as if she knew that there was more in him than met the eye. It looks like she finally won him over.

An upsurge of anger should follow - he knows it - but it doesn't. At first, there is nothing but mild annoyance, because one reminds the rookies not to waste time on nonessentials only so many times. Most of the men in the camp struggle to make ends meet; there is never enough food, petrol or ammo, but there is always an idiot who will pick up things like perfume, jewellery or lingerie during supply raids.

Dean sniggers quietly. He has not sunken into madness so deep that he couldn't recognize the absurdity of the situation. The fact that women keep wasting time and cargo space to bring cosmetics from forages irritates him more than the fact that Cas has slept with that girl. He isn't angry at all. If anything, he feels guilty for being so weak and broken that the angel felt obliged to come back to their bed, imbued with the stench of fear and nightmares, instead of staying with Anouk: her hope, her herbal incense, her sweet voice, her patchouli, immortality and reincarnation.

The guilt creeps up to him in the dark, getting heavier and more bitter every second until Dean feels like screaming. His lips move noiselessly when he repeats his own mantra to drive away the feeling that is crushing his chest: he never made Cas promise anything. He never demanded faithfulness, neither as a lover, nor as a leader. A part of him wishes that he was strong enough to cast the angel aside, to save him from destruction and misery awaiting anyone who gets close to the Righteous Man. A part of him is grateful that he doesn't have to try. He knows that even if he did, Castiel would never leave. No matter what happens, Cas will never leave.

* * *

 **These one-shots are getting really dark. I hope you like it, because I am a bit worried that I'm getting carried away by my unhealthy penchant for pain, angst and misery. Please R &R :)**

 **BTW I realized that the first chapter was littered with typos and grammar mistakes after I posted it. I tidied it up a bit. Sorry for my sloppiness. If you notice any glaring errors, please let me know.**


	3. Chapter 3

Cas cherishes the rare moments when a glimpse of old Dean can be seen through the shell that has hardened around him since the day Sam... Since the day Sam died - that's how he likes to think about it. There is nearly no trace of that heedless, ferocious boy the angel dragged out of Hell; even the blind fury that kept him going for months has now died down, solidified into bleak, hopeless, cold hatred. Still, the task of repairing cars sometimes gets Dean so engrossed that his features soften, his voice becomes melodious and cordial, his words flow easily, weaving stories from long lost movies and books. Sometimes the illusion is almost perfect; the smell of grease and gasoline, well-known series' of sounds, the triumphant smile spreading on Dean's face as soon as he succeeds - it all reminds Cas of Bobby's salvage yard, the good old days. They used to be terrified, exhausted and in pain most of the time, but they had one other. Now Cas sometimes catches himself expecting Sam to come by with two cold beers, put one on the ground next to his brother and sit on a tool box. Dean would snake out from beneath the car, sit up, complain that the beer was too warm, call Sam a bitch or try to get him dirty with grease - by accident, of course. The younger Winchester would retaliate by joking about Dean's beer belly or about how old and rusty he was. Bobby would laugh at all of them and call them idjits.

It was possible to forget about the Apocalypse back then. Now... sometimes the illusion is almost perfect, but it's only an illusion.

There is always something that knocks it down. Gunshots and Yager's yelling coming from the shooting range; the roar of jet engines or rumble of army choppers above their heads; someone coming to ask the leader for instructions. Dean would sober up in no time. His eyes would darken, his shoulder would square and he would answer in this guttural, harsh voice Cas could hardly recognize as his.

It's no different this time. Upon hearing footsteps on loose gravel Castiel knows that the moment of peace is over.

It's Randy - that young ex-troop that ran away from a... well, not a battle. A carnage. Even though Chuck (he was a good soul after all) did anything he could to convince the kid that there was nothing he could have done to save his comrades, anyone can feel that air of shame and regret tinging the usual PTSD in him. He sought someone he could serve to absolve himself and he found his God in Dean. Ever since Randy learned what was happening, he grew to hold Dean in high esteem that the leader likes to describe as creepy. No wonder he does. Winchester blended with a conglomeration of all possible male heroic figures; he is his fatherly figure, his archetypal staff sergeant, his Jesus Christ, his Captain America. Cas presumes that it's why Dean seems to hate the boy in particular, though he might as well be wrong. He feels like he doesn't know Dean as well as he used to.

Still, he knows him well enough to know that Dean will stand up, wipe the grease off his hands in a few quick, rough, almost violent motions, dust his knees off, straighten up, rise his chin and snap:

"What do you want?"

He places his hand on the back of Castiel's neck, standing next to the angel who is sitting on a tool box. It's not a caress, rather marking his territory. It's another thing that Dean does only in Randy's presence.

"Sir, we received a radio broadcast. I think you should check it."

"I told you not to call me that," Winchester growls. His grip on Cas's neck tightens to the point when it's almost painful, but not quite.

"Yes, sir!"

Dean doesn't even sigh or roll his eyes. It's a bad sign.

-x-x-X-x-x-

"So the army decided to get their asses out of Wisconsin, Michigan, northern Illinois, northern Indiana and Ohio..." Dean states woodenly.

"It will become no man's land, so survivors will be forced to either be evacuated or legally renounce USA citizenship," Castiel adds, cocking his head and rising his eyebrows in amusement. The other two hunters get the joke. They both snicker, because imagining that any legal procedures make any sense proves that Mrs Palin simply knows nothing about the situation.

"Yeah. Uncontrollable territory. I kinda get why..." Bobby clucks his tongue, "Detroit."

"Detroit," Winchester repeats. He takes a big swig of whiskey straight from the bottle and winces in disgust, "the fun part is," he tries to speak against the fresh burn that alcohol gave him; it's making his voice hoarse and choky, "they're gonna nuke Chicago, Detroit and Cleveland."

"Balls. We need to get the Colt from Crowley's deposit."

Dean pours himself a glass properly this time; he offers another to Bobby, but the hunter shakes his head, looking at his foster son with reproach.

"Relax," Dean tilts his chair back, balancing on two back legs like a teenager, "We have 70 hours till the bombs drop. 12 hours getting there, 12 hours back, let's say... 18 hours to get shit done, 6 hours in case there's a fuck up. More than enough."

The angel stands up slowly to stretch his shoulders.

"All right, I'll start packing. You taking M16 and Desert Eagle or A-K and Uzi's?"

Dean goes from nonchalant to tense and angry in a heartbeat; upon sitting up properly he sends his lover a threatening glare.

"I'm taking everything, 'casue you're not coming."

"Uhm... And what about Fi-Fi, Chloe and Coco? Correct me if I'm wrong, but I presume that a person who can actually see them will come in handy..." This time it is Castiel who has the high ground; having sat down again he puts his legs on the table and crosses his arms behind his head. Dean tries to regain his composure, although he looks like a beaten dog, casting fleeting glances on Bobby and Castiel. The reason why he needs Cas for the mission is exactly the same reason why he wants to keep him as far from it as possible. Hellhounds. Crowley trained them not to attack upon hearing a certain spell and left them to guard the Colt in an old deposit in Detroit - the only place they knew Lucifer wouldn't check. Theoretically it is safe to retrieve it... But only theoretically.

"I know the lullaby too," Winchester states with fake composedness, "I can deal with some buff, mutated zombie puppies."

"Yeah, and you suck ass at fencing," Bobby reminds caustically, "Boy, I could cut the ground from under your feet right now. If things go west, you'll need the blades and mr feathery ass here, who knows how to spin these babies because he's done it since the dawn of the fucking solar system!"

Cas sends Winchester a triumphant look.

"Yeah.. And who won't pass the warding," the latter drawls out.

"Dean!" Cas tenses up again, "We've talked about this. I'm human. No matter how hard you deny it, I'm human."

"How do you know?"

"Because..." Cas begins edgily, but a half-fond, half-teasing smirk brightens up his face, "If I was an angel, I would fly you home and kick some reason into your obdurate brain right this second."

Bobby snorts sarcastically.

"Well, thanks for not exposing me to the sight."

There is a moment when Dean looks like he's giving up, but the next second his features sharpen; his voice is gruff and dead again.

"Cas isn't coming."

"Why not?"

The angel ruffles; they both start up, inflamed by anger and spite that get triggered way too easily these days, ready to turn their quarrel into a fight any moment. Singer knows too well how this is going to end; luckily, his cabin doesn't have stairs, so he can roll his wheelchair freely to get out of their sight; he knows he would be ignored anyway.

"Because I'm not letting you near that hellh...," Dean hisses furiously; suddenly, he falters and squeezes his eyes shut; his lips go pale; he can barely speak, "When Jo... I can't lose... I.. I just can't," he shakes the weakness off and finishes in a dead, taut voice, "I won't let you near them. Understood?"

"Well, that's a pity, because I am not letting you go there alone either," Cas waits to see a spark of understanding in the hunter, but there isn't any; he grunts in helpless frustration, "Dean. I am deeply moved by your irrational protectiveness. In any other set of circumstances I'd be delighted, but now... Like you had the courtesy to put it, shit must be done and I happen to be the only one who can..."

He stops short. Something is different about the hunter - he's less aggressive, more tense. His lower lip is trembling ever so slightly. The angel is sure that nobody else would notice, but he knows Dean just too well. He understands.

Aggravation leaves Castiel in one deep ragged sigh when he realizes how terrified Dean is. Instead of continuing the cross talk, he pulls his lover closer to cup his cold, rough face and look him in the eyes.

"Dean. They won't harm me. I will be all right. I promise. Understood?"

After a moment of hesitation, Dean nods with a small, uneasy smile.

"Understood."

* * *

 **I do realize that this part does not make much sense in terms of plot, but I hope I managed to give you a nice one-shot revolving around Dean's attitude and his feelings for Cas. Anyway... who am I fooling? We all come here for feels, not for the plot, am I right?**

 **If you think that this part wasn't angsty enough and you're worried that I'm getting too soft - fear not, I will give you pain, misery, anxiety and violence soon.** **Most of the one-shots in this series will be on the angsty/heavy side, but you'll find one or two lighter ones like this.**

 **Please R &R, let me know if you're liking this series.**


	4. Chapter 4

It is late autumn when Randy comes back from his first supply run as a team leader; Dean knows something is wrong from the moment the maroon land rover stops and two twittering girls jump down from the tailgates - Jane and Alice probably, though all these women in mid-twenties look the same in long hair, cargo pants and simple tops so Dean gave up trying to remember all of them long ago. Randy's looking sour and embarrassed; upon approaching the leader he doesn't even have the guts to look him in the eyes, making Winchester grit his teeth in frustration. Dean gave him that job to boost his confidence. Just a quick trip to gather sleeping bags and blankets from a town they knew had been abandoned and stripped from everything valuable long ago. There were no croats there, because there were no people they could turn. There were no wild gangs of survivors, because there was little more to loot. The mission was foolproof, but somehow this whiny kid managed to botch up. It is clear from his deep red blush and weak voice that Randy gathers all his courage to confess:

"Sir, I tried to convince the girls that it is a waste of cargo space and time, but they smuggled it in..." he realizes that the lie doesn't make any sense. He draws a sharp breath a split second later, confused and relieved by Dean's reaction. Rookies always bring useless crap back to the camp, but this time it's beyond him; the leader just sighs and rolls his eyes, lacking the patience to even give Randy or the cheerful girl carrying a big, oblong package an admonitory glare.

A guitar. They found a guitar.

Later that evening everyone gathers in the common room. The finding causes a stir much bigger than Winchester has expected. People seem excited and merry, almost as if it was some kind of a miracle. Dean sees nothing but grim irony in the fact that the guitar survived in pristine condition - it required only tuning - when people, families, whole towns were wiped out by the virus or by the rioting it caused. There is nothing wonderful in the way its soft, bright sound moves through the fug created by dozens of sweaty, ill, tired people crowded in a barrack that smells like dust and wet concrete even when there are no people inside. Still, they seem to find some kind of comfort in listening to clumsily played chords and Risa's husky, shaky voice that gets louder and fruitier every verse, as if she took time remembering how to use her vocal chords for anything but repeating Dean's orders and throwing searing, vinegary remarks. As soon as she finds the right key, she is joined by a few other young men and women; Dean can hardly recognize any of them except for Anouk. There is something about her velvety voice, shiny black braids, ageless face and soft, knowing smile that hypnotizes and scares the man.

They start with "Kumbaya", "My Bony" and other ridiculous songs that everyone knows, they laugh bitterly and curse under their breaths as they choke on "America is beautiful", then Yager, who is a tad more drunk than usually proposes "Ten green bottles", but counting down 'survivors' instead of green bottles. Everyone thinks that it's a great idea until they reach the last verse and realize that the day when there'll be no survivors might actually come. Nobody admits it, but a bitter, bleak silence swells in the hall until it is pierced by weak, but clear and bright voice shyly trying the first verses of "When you believe". Nearly everyone joins the dark-haired, petite girl. Not everyone can sing; their voices are untrained and hoarse, several people mix up the lyrics, but they sing louder and louder as if it was some kind of ceremony. Dean notices Bobby zero his hip flask before sneaking out of the barrack, coughing into his sleeve. It turns out that Jane and Anouk actually know the children's prayer part in Hebrew by heart. It isn't until Dean hears Cas's strangled profanity that he realizes the fallen angel has been standing by his side for who knows how long. He has no idea what that part could mean, but he recognizes the word 'adonai'; he can guess the rest from the way Cas's lips thin and his jaw clench.

There is a fleeting moment when Dean almost puts his arm around Cas to guide him ouf of the barrack. They could leave together, have a smoke and a chat or simply use the downtime to take a lazy walk within the camp instead of watching this dismal spectacle, but he can't bring himself to do it. The sight before his eyes is too fascinating. He watches the enraptured people with some kind of morbid, hateful enthrallment. Their hope, their voices, their smiles - it's all so absurd that it takes all Dean's restraint not to laugh or jeer them.

They keep singing, talking, hugging, crowded around the guitar like it was a campfire on a cold night. Dean loses track of time until another song seeps into his consciousness ever so slowly. Words carried by a soft, dreamy melody drip one by one until he recognizes the one that feels like a jab on an old, inflamed, festering wound, ripping him from a cocoon of scornful detatchment.

 _The road is long_

 _With many a winding turn_

 _That leads us to who knows where_

 _Who knows where_

 _But I'm strong_

 _Strong enough to carry him_

 _He ain't heavy, he's my brother_

 _So on we go_

 _His welfare is of my concern_

 _No burden is he to bear_

 _We'll get there_

 _For I know_

 _He would not encumber me_

 _He ain't heavy, he's my brother_

Dean stands still for a while, stunned by the sudden pain and by how such a fleabite could bore right into his heart. The next second anger flares up in his chest, making his neck stiffen and his throat knot. The song breaks into a row of disappointed voices when the leader walks to the switch on stiff legs and turns the light out.

"Enough. You're wasting fuel. These aggregates don't run on water," he throws a cautionary glare at Cas, who was raising his hand to put it on Dean's shoulder and calm him down.

"Dean, come on," he can see Risa stand up and cross her arm in the faint, lurid moonlight, "We've got plenty of oil. Don't be such a miser!"

Somewhere in the darkness Randy yelps, shocked by her insubordination. In any other set of circumstances Winchester could actually find it funny. Now he just wants the evening to end.

"I said enough. Go to sleep, people!"

"Dean, please, let's talk about it," Cas tries to placate him softly, though he seems a bit scared as well; his hand on the small of Dean's back is warm and soft, but his grip is urging in a childish, helpless way. The man chokes back his anger, slowly yielding to Cas's pull, but he stiffens and ruffles up again when Yager horns in:

"If you don't wanna waste fuel, we could use batteries. Jeff has shittons and there are two or three led lamps, ya know..."

"You know what?" Dean cocks his head, violently breaking away from Cas's hold, "You're right. Use batteries. We have to use up all of them before they expire and leak anyway, and then we can throw all the battery powered shit away," he starts walking towards the drunk man; the group of people comes apart to let him through in perfect silence, "Because you know what? There won't be more new batteries," he hisses into Yager's face before turning to speak to all the people: "There will be no factories, no industry, nothing. Our world went to hell and it won't be gettin' back to normal. Nothing will ever be all right. Ever. So yeah, have your silly tea dance, sing your crappy songs, and enjoy life while you can. It's over."


	5. Chapter 5

"So that's you decision? Splitting up and sending away a hundred people just because they are a burden?" Cas shouts in disbelief as soon as the door closes behind the last member of their improvised war council. "They'll have to pass at least two hot zones before they reach any military base or guarded area. Why did you choose youngsters to escort them? These guys are hopeless and you know it."

"So you want them to stay? Camp is overcrowded, we won't survive winter like this. These people need to get to area controlled by the government. " Dean states firmly.

"You know that's not the point. The point is that you go and escort them to safety. You can't just abandon people you quasi-saved."

The leader stands up, folds the map that has been spread on the table and starts placing his personal guns there with an intention of cleaning them. There is an air of chilly, studied indifference to his moves.

"Correct me if I'm wrong, but you said you support me in this."

"I said I would help you, but not that I agree with you... Can't you see it? These people will be just cannon fodder if you are not there to protect them until we find a unit which can dispatch them to the coast."

"Hey, they will not be in worse shit than any other group of refugees not protected by hunters. There is still army, crisis center, firefighters, religious groups. Someone will take care of them."

"And of course there is no way a demon can possess any of them. Just listen to yourself."Cas runs his hands down his face.

"Cas, cut it out. No more mingling with victims. I am not a fucking foster parent. The plan is that we minimize the burden before winter and wait here until we get a lead on the devil. The world is fucked. Everyone is fucked. They'll be mauled by croats or shot by gangsters anyway. This year or next year, what difference does it make?"

Cas clenches his jaws, takes a deep breath and starts again, trying to sound less furious and more concerned, but the anger still burns in his chest and throat.

"Dean, what's wrong with you? You know I have nothing against risking your life or my life for the cause, but sacrificing innocent people?"

Dean freezes for a moment with his back turned at Cas; hunched and tense. He slowly takes a half turn to give his lover a dark sidelong glare.

"Listen, Dean..." Cas continues softer, fighting sudden dryness in his throat "You always said that angels are raging dicks. I agree. They always firmly believe that what they do is right, they are so self-righteous, so pompous, so focused on the goal that they don't even notice if they trample someone on the way..." Cas fixes his eyes on Dean's warningly as the leader is slowly turning to face him and tilting his head in disbelief, "that's why I left. And you know what? Now you're acting exactly like one of them. This is not the man I knew. This is not the man I fell for..."

"Don't you dare say that to me ever again!" Dean snaps.

As the leader stands still for a long while with his fist and jaws clenched, breathing heavily, steaming with anger, the last bit of compassion in Cas burns out, leaving only bitterness.

"Why?" he spits out, "Does the truth hurt that much?"

Dean's eyes narrow, muscles in his neck and jaw knot for a split second before he growls warningly :

"Just don't say that."

"Why? Why are you trying to do exactly what Michael would? To sacrifice everything just to get to Lucifer, just to have your personal vendetta" Cas clasps one hand around Dean's forearm and grips Dean's jaw with the other; makes the man look him in the eyes. "Just look at yourself..."

The leader digs his fingers into Cas's wrists, fighting to wrench his hands off and while the angel keeps hissing:

"I didn't forsake everything I had for this!"

Fury helps Dean free himself in one violent tug.

"Just shut up!"

"Dean!"

"Shut up, for fuck's sake!"

Dean hits the table so hard it makes Cas draw back in shock. The man lets out a long, jerky breath and bows his head. His voice scintillates with sparks of barely restrained rage.

"Say whatever you want, but don't you mention that one thing to me. Ever."

Encouraged by this sudden display of sincerity Cas makes a few steps towards the table; one scowl stopped him in tracks. He draws a breath to speak, but he is interrupted by Dean snapping:

"Cas, no. That's enough. We're done."

"Wh... what?"

Dean looks at the fallen angel with a mixture of weariness and exasperation.

"You heard me. Just leave me."

Cas swallows dryly.

"What are you talking about?"

"You see?" Dean straightened up and pointed an open hand at Cas, "That's the problem with you. You just won't fuck off. I'm sick and tired of you lecturing me and wet nursing me. The sight of you makes me wanna puke. I don't care how you do it, just go."

When the first shock had passes Cas realizes what the man really meant. He tilts his head, examining Dean's expression with attention and approaching him slowly. He is more confident with every step and Dean realizes he's lost. With every angel's step Dean hunches a bit more, takes a step back, gives in a bit, lets his anger yield and reveal an expression of despair. His voice melts into a choked plead.

"Cas, just please fuck off, for fuck's sake..."

"Shh... It's all right. I am here. "

When Cas is close enough to try to embrace Dean, the man slumps to sit on the floor, covering his face like he expected a blow, breathlessly repeating "fuck off fuck off fuck off". Cas kneels next to him and after a second of hesitation he gently tipps Dean's forearm. This fidgety, shy caress makes Dean's voice break into a sob.

"Just go, just leave..." he forces through clenched throat "You are right. I don't care. I don't even know how to. You are right..." Dean rises his head rapidly as if he finally gave up pretending he wasn't crying. For a moment he just stares at Cas, lost in his eyes, clinging to this look like it was the only thing that kept him alive. "I don't give a damn if I take the whole planet down with me. But can't you see you are the only god forsaken thing that I care about? The only one that I don't wanna haul down with me? Cas, if you stay with me the best that can happen is that you die and... God damn it, why are you so stupid? I will fail you! Cas, for fuck's sake, I will fail you like I have failed everyone else... Just leave me..."

The fallen angel skimms Dean's cheek with the back of his fingers. His voice is soft and solicitous when he whispers:

"It's the same thing all over again. You still have no faith."

The man gives him a suspicious, haunted look.

"Do you?" he asks bitterly.

"Yes."

Dean's sneering snicker is somewhat jerky; the hunter cannot conceal his torment no matter how much he wants to seem distant.

"Are you crazy?" he cries out, "how can you believe in God after all we..."

"Dean..."

This one word is enough to overcome him. Spoken with the same ardor all but masked by roughness every time. Castiel is the only one to say Dean's name like this.

"I am not talking about God. I have faith in you."

Castiel's profession makes Dean repeat the same scornful snort; a desperate attempt to prove to himself that he is not too weak to be cynical. The angel shifts his weight to find himself closer to his lover.

"Dean, you're doing exactly what you believe an evil person would do and you're doing it because you believe you're doomed. You still don't think you deserve to be saved..."

The glimmer of hope in Dean's eyes fades; he hangs his head and lets out a strange, tearful, whimpering snicker. Castiel sighed.

"You don't remember when I raised you from hell, do you?"

Dean shakes his head.

"You know, I remember. It is not something one can easily forget. You..." the fallen Angel brings his face so closecto Dean's that his breath burns the man's skin. Dean has an impression that the room suddenly falls silent and filled with a cold, oppressive energy; without protest he meets Cas's pertinacious, alluring, commanding stare "You thought you should stay. You fought back, but I raised you," he brings his face menacingly close to Dean's; his stare pierces Dean's soul to the very core; he speaks in a toneless, hoarse, faltering voice " I overcame you and I can do it again. Believe me. I will not let you do something a righteous man wouldn't do..."

Dean hesitantly gives in to Cas's pull; he let's himself be held and kissed. There is no reason to run away now, becuase for the first time in years Cas's touch does not feel intimate or good at all. It's cold, distant and opressive, almost menacing: this is something Winchester knows very well, something that does not terrify him like Cas's warm, loving closenes once did. He accepts the caresses, immobile like a mannequin. There is no reason to be afraid, because one cannot kill something that is already dead.

* * *

 **Here you go, pain and angst again. Hope you enjoyed this one :) Remember to R &R to let me know if I am moving in the right direction.**

 **BTW I have a few one-shots including the last one ready to be proof-read and posted, but before we get there: any requests?**


	6. Chapter 6

**This part was written as a requests from deadone1013, who wanted to read about Castiel losing his grace - thank you for this suggestion, I hope you like it :)**

 **Don't forget to go check out deadone1013's stories, you'll love them: they're surprising and well thought-out. You'll find no slash there, but they're full of delicious feelsy feels featuring Dean and Cas as friends. I enjoyed them very much!**

* * *

"Get me Cas now!" Dean's yell rolls over the rumble of engines that are still running idle, the buzz of alarmed crowd and a stifled groan of pain. He lays the woman he was carrying on the nearest porch, throwing worried glances on her reddened face covered in smears of blood and her big, rounded belly.

"What about the quarantine? Refugees from hot zones are always..." Yager horns in.

" I said now!" the Leader roars, glaring at the man, who breaks into run in search for the Second in Command.

It isn't necessary. Cas is already coming closer; he doesn't usually come near the gate to greet scouts coming back from supply runs or missions, but this time he had this whirling, chilling sensation; the remnants of his angelic powers still floundered in him, uneasy and urging. He isn't able to decipher any clear message. All he knows is that something is wrong. Really wrong.

He's taken aback at the sight of Dean's inhumanely pale face and wild look. Another glance is enough for him to understand.

"Where are we? My baby... A doctor..." the woman forces out between deep, hungry gasps as she comes to and slips out of consciousness. Cas can clearly sense her strain when the next wave of labor pains takes over her weary, wounded body.

"Dean, I can't," he opposes weakly, and he already knows he is going to lose.

"Cas, do it!"

The fallen angel kneels next to the woman, laces his fingers throug her dirty, sweaty hair. Even if it wasn't not for the lasts of his superhuman senses, he'd have no doubt that she is dying.

"We've talked about this, Dean. What if you ever need my help?"

"Cas, for fuck's sake, I don't give a..." his hasty, nervous hiss is drowned out by the womans' scream. Her eyes flutter open; the pained, pleading gaze she fixes on the leaders face is heartbreaking. Castiel brings his hand closer to her forehead. Now he can sense it all: fractured pelvis, damaged internal organs, blood loss, fever. Buried deep, deep down, creeping through her veins, there is something cold, pungent and dark - as if death was already claiming the woman. The fallen angel pushes the lasts of that scintillating light he harbored in his body into her. Its like dragging his hand through fire. Suddenly, he feels like he's bled dry within a second, like life was ripped out of his chest in one violent tug; his heart starts to flutter, losing its rhythm, empty chambers and atria reflexively contracting to pump nothing. Just a cold void.

The void engulfs him. For a moment he wonders, absently, how come breathing is so difficult. The next second he knows nothing.

-x-X-x-

It's late evening when Dean comes back to their cabin. The first thing he notices is darkness. Castiel hated it; he would always light up some candles or a lamp, ignoring Deans nagging about power shortage and fire hazard. This time, though, the lurid tint of twilight seeps through closed windows, carving mere shapes out of darkness. The fallen angel is sitting cross-legged on the floor, his back resting against a cold wall.

"Now I know why you drink," he slurs wearily as soon as his lover enters the room, "They are indeed unbearable."

"Who?" Dean squints, disoriented and disappointed. He came back bringing good news, but the hopelessness and bitterness he can hear in Cas's voice blows his good humor off.

"These tiny little voices in your head," Castiel drawls out before taking a swig straight from the bottle he's been cradling on his lap, "Doubts. Questions where there should be clarity. Meaningless memories. Wanting. Fear. I thought I would be prepared, but this is..." his eyes widen at the horrors that no one but him can see, "Dean, why do I feel like I need to run? I don't even know why, or from what... Is it... is it always going to be like this?"

"Yeah, you better start getting used to," Dean squats next to Cas to pat his shoulder. He does it uneasily, heedfully, ready to retract the hand at the first sign of shock or pain. He couldn't say why, but touching Cas terrifies him like touching a raw wound. The fallen angel tenses up for an instant, but doesn't shy away from the touch. Its like he doesn't even notice.

"Is this what being human feels like?" he asks blankly.

"Pretty much. Yeah."

"But you didn't say yes," Cas lifts his head to meet Deans eyes. It takes all of the leaders self-control not to recoil at the sight; this insane, hollow, broken look that grazes his face and unfocuses, dissolves into indefinite distance sends a chill down Dean's spine.

"You didn't say yes to Michael," Cas's voice gets thick and brittle; there is pain in it, there is guilt, fear and denial, and madness, "I would have. I would just want it to be over."

"Man, it doesn't matter now. Hey, Cas, easy..." the man tries to put his arm around Castiel's shoulder, but an alarming change in the latter's face stops him in tracks. Cas's breath quickens, it's getting heavier and more strained until it melts into strangled, short breaths he sucks in through clenched teeth.

It is not until the bottle shatters that Dean realizes how hard Cas has been clutching it. The sound and pain shock the dark-haired man back to full alertness, but he doesn't even notice shards of glass stuck in his skin. There is no time for hugs or comforting touches as Cas's body starts to quake with violent heaves. Dean knows Castiel is wouldn't cry even if he knew how to. He knows that there is pain too deep and too primal to be relieved by crying, because he's experienced it too. All he can do is to hold Cas's forearms in place so that the fallen angel wouldn't hurt himself anymore as he fights for breath.

"I just want it to be over..." he curls up with a stifled, inhumane howl, clenching his teeth on his own hand that is dripping with blood and whiskey. It takes a slap on the face for Cas to finally look at Dean.

"Cas, hey, look at me," the man growls, holding Cas's jaw in a firm grip, forcing eye contact, "That's right. Listen, the woman you saved. Her name is Paige," he loosens the grip and speaks softer when he notices sparks of recognition in Cas's eyes, "Remember?"

Cas's slight nod makes the Leader sigh in relief, relax his arms, sitting back on his heels and letting out a shaky, nervous laugh , "She delivered a girl. A healthy, beautiful, screaming, drooling, pooping girl. She named her Hope. A little tacky if you ask me, but hey, it's her child. She's had it thanks to you," finally, Cas's arms relax, if only a little, so that the leader can pull him closer, "Yeah, good, just like that. Just don't freak out anymore, okay? You're good. You're safe. You're good..."

-x-X-x-

Chuck remembers that day like one remembers a nightmare: hazy, no details, distorted timeline, but all the fear and pain etched into his brain forever, vivid and sharp. It was the day Dean received a distress call via radio from a town that was less than 8 hours driving away and decided to try to help. As usually Chuck waited with a heavy heart for the militants to come back, wondering if the camp was equipped well enough to treat and house everyone. Moreover, he had to deal with unrest caused by those who insisted on taking no more refugees, because they had already forgotten how they had been saved from a town hall, storm shelter or school encircled by Croats. To his relief he finally heard Wrangler's loud engine and commotion in the pre-camp improvised quarantine zone in early afternoon, not even 36 hours after the squad departed.

To his confusion one car left the zone and headed towards the hospital barrack. It was unusual and unsafe. It had been Dean's strict order not to let any refugee into the camp without 12 hours quarantine, spraying with holy water and touching with silver, iron and salt. Loud groans of pain he heard as the vehicle approached the barrack freaked him out even more.

Dean sprung out of the car, yelling "Get me Cas, now!" as he fumbled around the jeep, then emerged carrying a pregnant woman that was breathing heavily and groaning, obviously in labor. "Quick! She's wounded!"

Nearly everyone in the camp gathered as soon as they found out what was going on. Those who could give any aid helped eagerly; those who could not just stuck around the barrack.

Chuck did not see what happened to Cas, nor did he assist the childbirth; he stayed in inventory room and kept preparing ligature, iodine, antibiotics and all the mixtures of painkillers he could come up with from what they had. Finally, he heard the sound that made his heart skip a beat and a lump form in his throat - newborn's cry. Joseph, their camp doctor which happened to be a real MD assessed that the girl was fine and there was a significant chance for the mother to survive.

In the evening the shared dormitories and private cabins grew surprisingly silent, as if it was too much of an event to celebrate in their usual way. Instead of cheer, drinking and songs, a calm, solemn atmosphere veiled the camp. Nobody dared to voice this thought just as if they were afraid that it would break the spell, but everyone shared it. The first child since the Apocalypse started came into the world in a relatively safe place. There were not only people dying; there were people being born. There was still hope and life; not just a pack of God forgotten survivors refusing to give up a lost cause. Those who did not know the whole picture and thought that they were just dealing with an outbreak of a virus let themselves believe that they could survive and rebuild humanity. Even Dean seemed excited and light-hearted that day.

And on that silent night Chuck was jolted to full alertness with beastly screams echoing in the dark. He wanted to go out, but terror froze him in the doorstep. Yager, Dean and Joseph passed his cabin as they ran towards the barrack. There was a gunshot, an inhumane growl and an exclamation of terror. The baby started to cry again, but this time the sound chilled the blood in Chick's veins. It was the well-known growl of a hungry Croat, but forced through a tiny infant's throat.

Chuck entered the barrack just in time to see Dean take the newborn from the arms of a terrified doctor and break its neck with an expression of disgust.

-x-X-x-

Dean and Yager swore they had found the woman at least 16 hours before they arrived at the camp. Dean disregarded the quarantine thinking that it was a mere formality; that the woman was clean. They all agreed later that the labor could have delayed symptoms of infection or they simply missed them. Whatever they decided, it didn't change the fact that the woman managed to kill five people that night.

For the remainder of the night everyone could hear what was happening in the leader's cabin. The next morning was the first time Chuck had to tend to Castiel's injuries.


	7. Chapter 7

**All right, here is my double upload. I am deeply sorry for not being able to carry out Hoellenwauwau's request for a fluffy getting-together. It's just that good things don't happen in the endverse; not in my experience. I did magic up a couple of fluffy endverse scenes, but I just can't think of good emotions related to any major events in the endverse. My brain just pops up a "409 error" notification and freezes.**

 **What I managed to do was to come up with a getting-together one-shot that takes place in the apocalyptic endverse, though it is pre-Camp Chitaqua. It's rather something that deadone1013 might like: "raw pain and misery".**

 **Next chapter will include some plotless fluff ( I mean I hope it will be light and nice enough to be qualified as fluff) to mend your broken hearts.**

 **Thank you for your wonderful reviews, they make my day!**

 **BTW I thought that I can place musical dares here to maximize the torment. For this chapter, I dare you to read it while listening to Leona Lewis' "Run"**

* * *

They know that the epidemic has engulfed Wyoming as soon as they enter the first motel to book a room. There's a middle-aged, bulky man behind the counter instead of a typical bored lady; he isn't even hiding the suspiciousness in his look when he eyes Dean and Cas. Two lone strangers roaming a country that is no longer safe to travel must seem odd, but their worn-out paramillitary clothing, sure, brisk walk and the clink of gunmetal in their duffel bags lets him know that these two know where they are and what they are doing. The man shoves aside his Remington 870, which was lying on the counter, to make room for the register book: frequent power shortages make on-line booking and computer register useless nowadays.

There is one more sign of crisis. The man doesn't give them funny looks or make a wry face when the book one room. Safety first. He knows that. Sleeping alone is the first thing that gets people killed. Barred windows, barbed wire and moat filled with broken glass might keep Croats away, but it won't work against looters, robbers or all kinds of disturbed people who moved on from preaching and repenting to actually assaulting sinners upon seeing the first signs of the Apocalypse. Nobody sleeps alone anymore. Dean almost misses the days of relative normality, when he had to deal with teasing or scandalized looks in nearly every place he visited with Sammy. He regrets ever wishing to work alone, to free himself of Sam's constant pranks or nagging. Cas's quiet, patient, unobtrusive presence makes the loss even worse, makes him feel even more hollow. He follows the fallen angel upstairs, gritting his teeth against the old, obstinate anger smoldering in his chest.

"Left or right?" he asks as soon as they enter their room only to break the silence.

"You know that I it makes no difference to me, pick the one you like."

Dean checks the beds for hardness and broken springs. He isn't getting younger, so he starts to appreciate the role of good mattress in good healthy sleep. One of the beds seems more comfortable, so he plunges onto it to straighten his legs only for a while before he'll have to proceed with demon-proofing the room and preparing himself for the night.

Cas proceeds to take of his jacket and boots after fishing a small wash bag from his duffel, then draws several sigils on the walls using a can of glow-in-the-dark paint and a folded stencil. Unlike his companion, he keeps all his possessions in an improbable order. He isn't one to waste time on chatting, resting, watching movies or choosing the better bed either. Winchester is aware that heavenly soldiers training couldn't have included a human evening routine, but sometimes the man has an impression that he's traveling with an ex-millitary. The same straight, stiff neck, the same inability to lay back and relax, the same drill. Yet, there is something even more annoying abut Cas when they are alone: he's even more taut, watching every step and motion as if he was struggling with his own vessel, as if he watched out not to make even a slight mistake in his studied routine, not to let any emotion surface.

Dean takes a deep breath when the bathroom door close behind Cas's back. He's on his own. Going over good memories is one of the methods he mastered in order to avoid being left alone with his ruminations, but it's not perfectly safe either. There are a few topics that are ridden with hidden icebergs: memories of something he's lost, of moments when he could have changed something, but didn't. He knows the wave of unexpected pain clawing at his throat all to well to risk it, so in moments such as this he thinks about movies he's watched, girls he's slept with or Cas. Things he did, things he didn't do. Good times they had. The way the angel used to be more relaxed, more easy-going. He does have better days from time to time, when he attempts to use his growing knowledge of pop-culture to make bad jokes or socializes with other people, but he's never so light-hearted around Dean. The man guesses that he'll have to take that silent treatment; there is no way to change it now. The weight of unspoken grudge and long overdue apologies, the memories of things they've both lost - it all must make his presence unbearable for the fallen angel. Sometimes, when the road stretches out for miles and they sit in the car in silence he's almost ready to say sorry, but he always chokes the words back. There's no way to apologize for what he has done or what he failed to do. There's no use if he can't make things right.

There is a touch of bitter longing that veils these memories. It feels like Dean lost not only what had been, but also what could have been... all these moments when he thought he was so close to getting through to the angel, to entering his world, to finally understanding. He's always felt that there was something beautiful that he was missing. A key to Castiel's mystery, hidden somewhere in his naive confessions and fleeting glances. A passionate prayer he couldn't hear. Maybe if he had listened better, he wouldn't have to bear the bleak, cold silence between them now.

The bathroom door creak; Winchester shakes off his ruminations, but Cas has already noticed that something was wrong. He sits next to the man with a heavy sigh. Dean can't help noticing how humane and vulnerable he's looking now that his skin is still damp from the shower, his unkempt hair dripping with water that sinks into a tattered towel on his shoulders. He's wearing only old checkered flannel pants and a simple white A-shirt.

"Dean, you don't have to do it," he begins, not looking at his friend.

"No, you're right. We need to find Crowley. Visiting Hell's Gate is the best shot we have."

"I know. I can go alone."

Dean sits up abruptly, making his companion finally look at him. There's compassion and sorrow in Cas's gaze, and something that Dean can't name, but what's making him uneasy.

"Dude, could you just once not come up with this kind of shit? Why do you always, like always, try to go kamikaze?" It starts as a salty joke, but halfway through the sentence Winchester realizes that he really means it. Nonplus flashing through Cas's face lets him know that they are on the same page, "I mean seriously, what's wrong?" he asks softer.

"Nothing is wrong. I simply wanted to say that I understand if you don't want to go back there."

Hell. So this is what it's all about. Not exactly hell, but its threshold. The only place where they could meet demon marauders, not exactly happy with Lucifer's rule, still clinging to their underground hiding place.

It's been so long and so much has happened since his death that Dean hardly remembers anything, or rather hardly believes the time in Hell to be the worst thing that happened to him. Losing Jo and Ellen, seeing the world slip into madness, and hearing the news from Detroit... He went to hell to save his little brother from death, but in the end he brought a much worse fate down upon Sam. None of this would have ever happened if he was simply left there to rot.

"Why didn't you just leave me there?" he hisses, unaware of what he's doing. Hurt and offended look on Cas's face lets him know that he said it out loud. He can't stand that expression of sorrow and pity. He couldn't name one reason if he tried, but it simply _feels_ wrong. Cas should be the one apologizing. The embers of rage burst into flames in no time. All he wants it to wipe this look from the fallen angels face.

"You knew what would happen," Dean presses, leaning towards his friend, "It was too late to save the seal, so why rescue me, huh? You dragged me out of there just so that I could be Michael's condom and help you blow the planet off?"

Cas moves away a bit; he tenses up, his face solidifies into an expressionless, impervious mask.

"My orders were just to save you. I wasn't aware of Raphael's plan," he answers in a dead, flat voice.

"Cut the crap," Dean's yell snaps the other out of this state.

"Dean, I knew nothing until much later. You know that. You can blame me for not telling you about Lilith in time, but I swear I did not know about it back then."

"What would you do if you knew?" Winchester urges, claiming the space from where Cas has just retreated, pinning him to the bedhead. The fallen angel tries to remain calm, but uncertainty and hope bleed through his pretended indifference when he whispers:

"Why does it matter?"

"Dunno. Just sometimes I feel like you're one of them. Big, mighty dicks using us here like puppets. So yeah, tell me. What would you do?"

"Back then?" Cas heaves a deep, weary sigh leaning forward to rest his arms on his knees; his absent gaze wanders about the farthest wall; his friend can see how hard Cas is trying not to look at him, "The same, most probably. I used to follow orders. I did not understand what I understand now."

"And now?"

"I would still try..." comes a timid answer, full of weakly concealed ardor.

"Yeah," Winchester snorts, "Cause it came out so well."

This raillery is like a slap on Cas's face; he turns to Dean, stands up, puts all the strength he has left into a zealous ensuring:

"Dean, it's not too late!"

"What do you mean not too late?" Dean stands up as well to tower over his friend, threatening and accusing as they stand chest to chest in a motionless fight, "Everything went to hell, can't you see? The worlds ending!"

Cas finally gives in. He looks away for a moment, then meets Deans eyes again to pierce the man with the sad, knowing look Dean fears so much.

"Dean, I understand. It is too late for Sam, but you still can save countless others. People who are someone's brothers, mothers, children. You told me that. They are worth saving. You can still kill Lucifer. Save people."

In spite of his desperate attempts withhold that look, Winchester feels that he is going pale; he darts nervous glances here and there, trying not to surrender.

"And you?"

"I shall keep trying to save you."

There is a moment of tense, charged silence, disturbed only by their heavy breaths. Cas takes a small step back, but the man follows his every motion as if he was hypnotized, as if something was telling him not to let the fallen angel out of the distance that lets him feel the warmth of Cas's body and see the slight, quickened pulsation of the veins in his neck.

"From what?" his trembling mouth makes his voice sound weak and brittle.

"From becoming the man you believe you are."

Why?" the man leans in closer; the other's breath feels hot and electrifying on his neck and cheeks.

"Isn't it obvious?"

Winchester twitches when the tips of Cas's fingers gingerly skim his chin and lower lip, but deep down he isn't really surprised. It's the same look of admiration and boundless devotion that he's seen so many times, that has confused and irritated him so many times, but now he finally knows what it means. Relief washes over him, but then comes denial, guilt, fear. This should not be happening. With the remnants of his willpower he pulls away; he grips Cas's wrist, but something in him breaks and instead of moving the angels hand away from his own face, he presses a long, soulful kiss on the inside of his palm.

"Cas, no. Don't," he pleads and chokes back a sob when Cas's other hand traces the curve of his jaw to rest on the back of his head.

"It's all right, Dean," he feels Cas's fervent whisper rather than hears it; words he's so afraid to hear scorch his skin when Cas's lips move against it; words that will forever remain seared into Dean's brain, "It's too late for me anyway."


	8. Chapter 8

**Here comes the fluffy one! Hope you like it**.

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There are two purely human experiences Cas can't get used to. As an angel, he has known exhaustion, pain, weakness, even - in a way - hunger, when he'd spent more energy than his grace could provide. Now that he is human, some things are absolutely new.

Boredom is one of them. As an angel, he maneuvered within time and space, which allowed him to keep himself busy all the time. Now that time is fixed he feels like he is trapped on a boat without oars or sails carried by a lazy river's flow. It's as scary as it is disheartening.

Temperature is another experience that has him hating his new situation. He finds it amazing that humanity survived at all, given the extremely limited range of temperature that doesn't kill them. He quickly learned than the range in which humans feel comfortable is even narrower and that being placed in conditions that fall within the scope between optimal temperature and deadly temperature causes extremely unpleasant sensations. It takes some getting used to - more than he'd like to admit.

This is why he spends most of his free time cocooned in blankets and the warmest clothes he can find, reading or simply thinking. Luckily, he doesn't have to lay on the floor anymore - they have a bed, a real bed salvaged from one of the camp staff's houses that collapsed and had to be demolished. He hates even peeking out of his heap of blankets, so he's silently grateful to Dean, who doesn't force him to do regular camp chores, as he usually does with people who are sick, but not yet dying.

Cas has also learned that a trifle such as runny nose can gradually become the cause of an excruciating torment. He would feel so much better if only he could find his soft, warm, baggy, fluffy...

"Hey, give me back my sweater!" he shouts at Dean, who has just appeared in the doorstep, bringing a whiff of sharp, clean, frosty air with him. The man looks down at himself, brushing fresh snow off his shoulders and from the patch of blue wool that peeks from underneath his unzipped jacket.

"Since when is this your sweater?"

Cas tilts his head; there is no sign of innocent curiosity in this gesture anymore. He's imbued with Dean's sassiness now, but his rich vocabulary lets him take it to a whole new level.

"Well, I believe I've rightfully owned it from the day you said, quote, It sucks balls just like Emmet in Baldwin High, you can have it, it's ugly as fuck?"

The leader rolls his eyes; his hands wander up to the sweater's collar, but stop halfway.

"All right, smartass. I changed my mind. It's comfy."

"Exactly. It's comfy and fluffy and mine," Cas mirrors Dean crossing his arms and his slightly pouting expression, which is enough for the man to realize he isn't going to win this way. Winchester proceeds to yank his arms out of the jacket's sleeves. The garment wasn't designed to be worn over a thick sweater, so it takes some scrabbling. Clumpy boots, which he tries to shake off, don' let go easily either.

"How come when something is yours, it's yours, and when it's mine it's still ours?" he challenges, still struggling with his left boot, but refusing to bow down and actually unlace it.

"Because, young man, this is how community property works. You said it yourself. I am just conveniently and slyly reversing the perspective."

Dean looks outraged for a moment, but a surfacing memory softens his features. He snorts.

"I said it when you punished my can of taco beef... you can't exactly share chow that's already eaten, you know?"

"All right, I will satisfy your lust for power. Oh mighty Dean, to thee I supplicate, may I please have your sweater back?" Cas delivers a bantering speech, then adds more sincerely: "I'm cold."

"Geez, why do you have to be such a baby?" Winchester carps under his breath.

"Technically I have been human for less than a year, so I think I am entitled to be a little bit of a baby..."

"Technically, Cas, you're a pussy and you know it." Despite his sharp tone, Dean has already given up. He takes the garment off, balls it and throws at his lover, who catches it mid-air.

"I chose to pretend to believe that you have just called me a female cat," a muffled voice comes from inside the bundle of wool Cas is trying to put on, "And thank you for the sweater. It smells like you," Cas adds when he finally surfaces.

"Dude. Seriously. That was gay."

"It's interesting that you mention it now. There's hardly anything more gay than the things we..."

He's cut off by urgent knocking at the door and Dean's taut "Damnit! Cas!" that comes a split second later.

"What?" Cas shrugs with badly faked obliviousness.

"Just..." Dean desperately tries to shush him, which brings a smug smirk onto Cas's face, "shut up and go back to being sick. You're good at it. I'll tell Chuck to find you a sedentary job. I'm gonna tend to the game with the guys."

"Oh, so you really went hunting, as in hunting?" the piece of news is to interesting that the fallen angel forgets to taunt Winchester.

"Yeah. Hunting hunting. I killed Bambi's mom and a couple of bunnies, like it or not," the leader straightens up with pride before searching the coat hanger and improvised shelf for a more comfortable and less valued attire. He settles on an old, dingy flannel jacket and a pair of Wellingtons, which make him look like a thoroughbred redneck, "I'm leaving, so you can sob all you want, but try to check yourself and not look hideous when I come back."

"Love you too, sugar cube!" as Dean's leaving, Cas shouts through closing door as loud as he can, making sure anyone in the range of thirty feet can hear him. Before the door closes, he can make out Dean's peeved 'Ugh'.

Not more than five minutes has passed when the leader opens the door with a kick, carrying a huge cardboard box that he plops onto the floor next to the bed.

"Almost forgot. Check it out," he grins.

"Is it the job from Chuck? Doesn't that knave have mercy?" Cas whines, believing the box to contain loot to collate or all kids of broken gizmos to fix.

"No, it's for you, as in for you," Dean is already by the door, waving good-bye with his back turned at Cas.

The fallen angel doubtfully lifts the lid to peek inside.

The box is full of disposable hand warmers.


	9. Chapter 9

**There are two things I need to explain:**

 **First - about the abuse and violence in chapter 6. This chapter concerns the same topic. I was trying to be ambiguous, so that you can decide whether it looks more like Dean hurting Cas or more like Dean trying to stop Cas from hurting himself. Even I don't know which interpretation I prefer.**

 **Second - SPOILER for season 11 ahead (only in the AN, not the story,)**

 **I know that Chuck was revealed to be God in season 11, but I don't think that this plot twist was planned as early as in season 5. Endverse Chuck was meant to be just a regular guy.**

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 **I had this chapter written and ready for quite some time, but recently I decided to perform a major surgery on it to replace one part. I did my best to blend the new text into the old one, but I don't have a beta (and as you know one is usually blind to his own mistakes), so if something doesn't make sense (like the characters suddenly teleporting or standing up right after they've stood up) please don't mind it. It'd be wonderful if you dropped me a line so that I could correct the error.**

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 **Musical dare: This time, try reading it while listening to "Dust in the wind" by Kansas.**

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Chuck straightens up to inhale deeply when soft draught blows from the forest encircling the camp. His aching back needs this simple exercise no less than his nostrils needs the scent of pines to oust the sharp smell of chemical fumes rising from three large plastic boxes he is unpacking. This time the plundering squad managed to reach a relatively intact pharmacy. Nonetheless, some phials are broken, some ointments and infusions are expired, many bottles leak. Atop of the chemical, prickling reek wafts a foul stench of mold that feeds on damp cardboard. In spite of being accommodated to it - at least far better than other dwellers of the camp - Chuck hates this part of his job.

The ex-prophet and pill popper hangs around the hospital barrack, checking med supplies and trying to assess needs of newly rescued refugees. He has no real function; leastwise no rank in Deans improvised chain of command. Nonetheless, Chuck sometimes feels like someone between eminence grise and granny-matriarch of the camp. He is probably the only person that knows the location of every piece of equipment and amount of supplies they have left. He is also the first one people approach when they need anything.

It is Dean's strict order that Chuck stay around the weak and those in need. The official version is that years of living on the verge of poverty made the former writer an expert when it came to making bricks without straw. Dean would never admit he still hopes that despite the fact that Chuck's visions are gone, the prophet of the Lord is still protected; Chuck knows that it is the real reason for ordering him to stay near the weak ones anyway. Even if this is just a delusion, it is worth a shot. Past years had all of them gotten used to trusting desperate guesses and taking every slightest chance. They have nothing else left.

Chuck does not mind. Protected or not, he prefers relative safety of Camp Chitaqua to battlefield. Was it not for the duty of unpacking smelly medicaments, he would be content.

There is one more reason that makes his work unpleasant. The closeness of the leader's cabin.

Bawled obscenity makes him budge. The sequence of sounds that follows is ever so familiar: a thump, a moment of silence, slammed door and Dean yelling in low, throaty voice:

"Don't you dare dog me like this, you son of a bitch!"

Cas stands just outside their cabin for a while, dazed and disoriented, then heads towards one of the watchtowers for a calming walk. Chuck observes him for a while, then gets back to running through the boxes and checking their content against the list of needs reported by the refugees.

In moments such as this his writer's acumen is likely to kick in. Sometimes he can't help self-loathing, sometimes it makes him snicker because of how absurd it is. Take these two, for instance. From the moment he met them, over the years of living on the edge Dean and Castiel somehow switched roles. It was Cas now who would fool around telling bad jokes with this devil-may-care attitude that would sometimes crack, revealing a defeated, shattered soul; Dean has turned into an emotionless war machine. It would make a fantastic background for a story. An angel - fierce, wrathful Power Chuck knows from his feverish prophetic visions, a being older than humanity; woven of light and force he effused, scorching everything it touched, is now bound to a group of twitchy, filthy, ailing survivors, not less disoriented than them - and all of it because of one man, whose soul used to be more precious to this angel than the Heavenly Host and who is now just a burnt out, empty shell of a man. Only the shreds of their fights Chuck can't help overhearing reassure him that Dean still has a heart. It is filled with nothing but anger, but it is there. If it was his own idea Chuck would probably have a hard time deciding if it was wonderfully epic or too gloppy to include in a book.

Except that it is real. It is so real that Chuck's stomach cramps with fear and pity, especially in moments such as this. The anticipation of what will follow throbs dully in his chest.

After several minutes Chuck catches a glimpse of a silhouette. Cas is standing halfway between the lavatory and the hospital barrack, hesitant and visibly fighting an internal fight. He sways slightly, then approaches Chuck, dragging a heavy cloud of the smell of weed with him.

"Listen, could I...? I think I might use some company."

Chuck looks up. He knew what to expect, but still the view makes him twitch. Cas's lips are trembling, his pale skin looks almost deathly against the dark shadows under his eyes. His breath is still quickened and jerky.

"Oh, man..." Chuck sighs sympathetically "Sure. Come. Were OK on happy pills if you want some," he runs his fingers through his hair before gesturing for Cas to sit next to him, "Just tell our high and mighty Leader to bring more ligature from next supply run..."

The fallen angel staggers up the stairs onto the porch, while Chuck points at the messy mass of soaked cardboard boxes, phials and blisters of drugs with revulsion.

"But hey, nothing comes free," he adds, trying to sound casual "In exchange you'll have to help me go through these boxes that Yager brought yesterday, arrange and label drugs, check expiry dates, make a list, you know," Chuck babbles uneasily, "Perhaps I'll let you chose something of your liking without reporting it in the inventory," for the first time he dares to look into his friend's eyes, afraid of what he will see. Cas gives him a faint smile meaning that he understands what the offer really means. Refuge. A few hours of purpose and action instead of wandering aimlessly in wait for Dean to calm down.

"You know how to bait me. I can even help you arrange pills by color. I guess I won't be going home until his highness comes down a bit."

Cas sits cross-legged next to the largest container, but he does not seem to be overflowing with enthusiasm. The prophet feels anger swelling in him, fueled by his helplessness. There is something wrong going on between these two - something much worse than should be, given the circumstances.

Chuck finishes browsing through the first box, then opens his mouth to speak, let the air out with a sigh, then works up courage to speak again.

"What was it this time?"

Cas lets out a low, husky, ugly chuckle, then leans back and look up. His lips stretch in a wide, toothy grin, but there isn't even a hint of smile in his eyes.

"It's the same old story over again. Castiel, a former provider of readily and facilely performed miracles, reduced to an useless, juiceless bag of meat. Accepting it takes a significant amount of patience."

Chuck can barely hold his tongue and not remark that the fallen angel indeed is falling apart. There used to be a time when Cas was already deprived of his powers, but he remained a good soldier with lots of stamina in his skinny body; unparalleled in hand-to-hand combat and with cold steel. The prophet just grunts uneasily and decides to let it pass. There is no use of reminding a junkie that he was a junkie.

He sits down on the deck and starts to browse through the looted goods. After a while of awkward silence Chuck speaks again:

"Man, I mean, why don't you do something about it?"

"About not being able to zap myself all over the world? I am doing something about it all the time. If you wish, I will let you try my special soup that takes you for astral journeys."

"Cas, you know what I am talking about. What's wrong? What is he doing to you?"

The fallen angel sniggers and shakes his head while systematically shoveling phials of pills with his hand.

"Oh, that one is interesting," he fishes out an orange plastic tube before examining it under the light, "and looks all right."

Chuck frowns.

"Ya sure? That's some pretty hardcore stuff."

"Hardcore stuff for hardcore problems." The blue-eyed man drops the subject sharply, then slips the tube into the front pocket of his worn out military jacket.

The prophet straightens up, trying tries to give his friend a somber look, anxiously aware that neither his posture, nor his character can make him look serious or respectable. Nonetheless Cas calms down a bit; for the first time during their conversation he really looks Chuck in the eye. His goofy smirk fades away.

"Chuck, I know you are worried. You have your perspective, I have mine. That is all."

"Well, my perspective is that you're turning your brain into mashed potatoes and... uhm, let me guess, the majority of your hardcore problems has one walking talking source... You don't have to stick to him. Look, I know it all may be confusing for an angel, but...you know, just, uhm...oh, man..." Chuck loses his train of thought halfway and just hopes that his sincere concern and compassion will somehow get through to Cas.

Cas sighs. Rays of setting sun soaking through tree branches hit his face as he sits back with his eyes closed. For a moment he is immobile, not even breathing, and just when Chuck is starting to get really worried he speaks in a strangely calm, deep voice.

"You know what I am. What I used to be. I have been here for a very, very long time. I witnessed the creation of Earth. I saw the first things that were there to be seen when the Sun combusted. I witnessed the rise of humanity... and now, in what seems like seconds ago compared to my lifetime, everything I have ever known, everything I have ever believed proves wrong, so forgive me, but saying that I am confused is rather an understatement. I gave up everything to find answers; something to believe in, to rely on. All I've got is...this. And him. He is the one thing I know for sure, one thing that anchors me to sanity. If I let go of it, there's nothing," he slowly turns his head to look at Cas; his eyes seem to emanate soft, blue light that pierces Chuck with bittersweet sorrow, "Do you understand?" he repeats softly, "Nothing."

The prophet grunts uneasily, shifting his weight onto one side. Before he can force words through his tight throat, Cas taps his own thighs energetically like he's just resolved something, gets up and turns towards the stairs, but stops halfway to give Chuck a sidelong glance.

"Anyway..." he begins with a fake cheer, " the problem is not in what he's doing to me. It's in what I'm doing to him. That's why I need these," he pats the pocket; the pills rattle dryly against hard plastic of the phial, "So don't worry. Que sera, sera. All we are is dust in the wind..." he sniggers moonily, shakes his head slowly as if he was astonished by his own thoughts and totters towards his cabin.


	10. Chapter 10

**I figured I'd just throw in one of my pre-written chapters before I have some more time to write your requests: the beginning of the Apocalypse by Bellatrix-la-dumb and What happened between Dean and Cas after Cas post his grace by deadone1013. I think I'll be able to post these requests in a couple of days and then we'll wind up with a very very dark finale. Thank you for sticking around and for your reviews!**

 **Hoellenwauwau, yeah, I might have overdone with the fluff a little, but it was refreshing :) I'm dutifully going back to dark and painful now.**

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 **Musical dare for this chapter: "** **Breathe me" by Sia or** **"Say something" by A Great Big World**

Cas jumps down from the jeep's tailgates when the vehicle is still moving to trot towards Chuck, who is waiting at the gate as usually when the Leader returns from a mission.

"There's nothing here for you this time..." the fallen angel assures in haste, clumsily trying to obliterate the next car that arrives and stops in front of the Camp's headquarters - a white Defender marked with patches of rust - from Chuck's view. Everyone knows how much Dean hates this rugged, clumsy, boxy car, so he must have been a good reason for driving it. A really tough and nasty job could be such a reason, and before Chuck has time to reflect on how easily such a thing affects him, he feels his heart sink.

The prophet spotts a man bound with ropes that smoke and sizzle on his skin and a bag with a devil's trap covering his head. Even if these details escaped his notice, Chuck would still hear his inhumane, vicious growl as soon as the LandRover's engine was turned off. Three men help Dean wrench the man from the car and pull him towards the small, secluded cabin that serves as gathering hall and Dean's office.

Cas holds on to Chuck's arm to come down a bit after fast ride and fight that must have taken place not long before - streaks of blood on Cas's jacket and face are not yet dry. This characteristic stench of strain and adrenaline still lingers around the man.

"Yet, you have something that I may need. A bit of pure ethanol, if you are so kind," the fallen angel stands on his own now, but still keeps his hand on Chuck's shoulder. "I must wash down the insults that I am bursting with!" as he speaks, he turns away to shout towards Dean, who is just disappearing in the headquarters.

The prophet gives his friend an uneasy once-over.

"It's just a vessel, Dean!" Cas's yell is now raucous and throaty, "Damn you! It is just a vessel!"

There is no answer. The barrack's door remain closed, even when Castiel sways onto the wall, slides down to sit on the ground with this head covered with his arms and lets out a single doleful cry that tears the night's peace before it sinks into the dark, cold, impervious forest.

-x-X-x-

Dean didn't show in their cabin for six days. After tearing the first demon into pieces he immediately departed to "run errand", came back with another demon and did the same. When he finally comes in, he reeks of blood, sweat, sulfur and anger. As he appears in the doorstep, the sight stops him in tracks. He has to take a look around the interior. The smell of weed and incense is stifling, there are candles and stubs stuck into a mountain of congealed candlewax - some drizzles caught for eternity in their crawl towards a faded carpet that covers half of the floor.

"Cas, what's happened?"

The fallen angel puts down his joint while gathering himself up from the lotus position to sit on their bed. He gives his lover a displeased, sidelong glance.

"You bled over my shirt," he remarks. Dean can recognize the moony, sloppy tone of someone heavily drugged. He figures out that the joint was not the only thing Cas is high on.

"Our shirt." Dean corrects him automatically. He is too baffled to notice that it doesn't even matter.

"My. I told you not to wear it. There are really few things that I don't want you to wear and that shirt is... was one of them. I liked it."

"Cas, what the fuck?" Dean approaches the bed with a gesture like he wanted to put his hand on Cas's shoulder, but the fallen angel shakes the touch off.

"You know what? You know why I like this shirt?"

Dean curls his lips.

"Because it fit me. It was not too large. It's always this way. We go for supply run and grab some clothes for you that I end up wearing because there is no time to grab something for me. I guess I'm lucky to have my own shoes," Cas hunches up, detached and defeated.

"All right, I'm sorry, we'll get you a new one, but what I mean is this..." the leader gestures around the cabin "I'm not home for not even a week and you turn it into some kind of... I don't know. Temple?"

"It's feng-shui." Cas sounds jaded and stale, "Anouk and I... We spent much time together when you were gone. It was very educational."

"And you became a buddhist?"

"I didn't become anything," the fallen angel grinds out with barely restrained grudge, "I just chilled."

The leader crosses his arms; he is trapped between worry and spite. The latter wins.

"Shouldn't an angel be christian? Just sayin'," he remarks caustically.

Instead of getting even more agitated, Cas heaves a long sigh.

"I am not an angel. I am human and I can be whatever I wish, except of course for a powerful immortal superhuman creature able to change anything. Second best choice is psychoactive drugs and no religion."

Dean feels a bit disoriented - enough to make him feel a bit queasy.

"So where is your faith now?" he asks, uncertain as to where it will take him

Castiel rubs his lips and stands up to face Dean. For a moment the man is dazed by the look of Cas's impossibly blue eyes; he realizes they hadn't looked at each other so closely for a very long time. Cas's words, however, make his stomach cramp and feel even heavier and colder than usually.

"You used to be my religion" he brushes Dean's lips with his thumb; his skin is cold and dry "Trying to save you used to be my religion, but I give up. I failed you. All I could do now is apologize, but... I am not sure if you would understand what I mean..." he casts his eyes down.

Suddenly, all his flippancy is washed away and all Dean can see is a helpless, hapless, lost child. The man puts his arms around his lover, trying to pull him closer. There's a moment when Cas tenses up and jerks back, appalled by the half-dried clots of blood on Dean's jacket and sleeves, but after a moment of hesitation he gives up, allows himself to be held like a lifeless, limp statue.

"Dean," he inhales sharply, then speaks hastily in a brittle, strangled voice as if he raced his own fear to say what he has to say before the moment is gone, "I gave everything there was of me not to have you do this. Become this. There's nothing I would deny you, it's just that I have nothing more to give. It was not enough, I was not..."

" Cas, plase," it's all Dean can say. In the velvety silence of a summer evening their ragged breaths sound disturbingly loud as they stand embraced, trying to calm down. The man feels Cas's whole body shiver and quake, his musles tense up and relax in violent spasms as he is fighting to control his breathing...gradually, the heaving of his chest gets slower, less desperate until he finally comes down enough for Dean to losen his hold without fearing that Cas will collapse.

They look at each other, shamefaced and disoriented; both of them know that last moments of the life they had are slipping through their fingers, but they let them drain away, sink into the overwhelming silence between them.

"So what do we do now?" the leader finally ask; his mouth is so dry and numb that it feels like someone else was speaking for him.

Cas's chest vibrates in a bitter, pained snicker.

"I guess it solves many of our...uhm... marital disagreements. We could pretend that nothing happened, like we always do. Or have lousy, awkward make-up sex. Or get obscenely plastered."

"Together?"

The fallen angel just nods.

"So you're not leaving?" The leader asks even quieter, feeling that despite the fact that he manages to seem unruffled, his heart skipped a beat in anticipation of the answer.

"Of course not. You cannot ask this of me."

"I don't. Damn it, I wish I could. But I don't."

Dean's eyes start to sting; he hasn't cried in months, he almost forgot how if felt. Something claws at his guts and throat, his lungs burn like he breathed fire. He clenches his jaw, knowing that if he lets himself break down, he will never stand up again.

"Why didn't you listen..." he manages to whisper, searching Cas face of any sing of emotional, anything that would shine through that dark, bleak desolation.

"Because I had a choice..." Cas answers softly, and before a hitch in Dean's breath can break into a sob, he presses his fingers to the man's lips to silence him. He gathers himself right after, pushes Dean away to look him in the eyes - soberly, matter-of-factly, "So, what did you learn?" he inquires, and if the leader didn't know him so well he might have missed out how hard Cas tried to stay calm.

"Not much," Winchester does his best to mirror this fake composedness, "He didn't know where the big guy was, just gave me another name of somebne who could know."

"So you need to go."

"Cas..."

"No, Dean. Go. I have already lost my fight. You still have yours. Go."


	11. Chapter 11

**Bellatrix-la-dumb's request: more about the beginning of the Apocalypse.**

 **Don't forget to check out her stories if you want some really heavy canon-compliant well written angst.**

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 **No musical dare here, because this one is not that angsty in my humble opinion. There's a little less aggravation, a little more action here.**

 **By the way, I noticed that some of you want to read more about pre-endverse situations, so, well... Some of you already know that these one-shots were intended to be a part of a bigger story I started to write, a 2009-2014 AU diverging from the canon from s05e03 and going all the way to The End. I started posting it some time ago, but discontinued the story because the task was just too big.**

 **Much of what you could probably want to read is there - Sam saying yes, Dean and Sam taking separate ways, Dean and Cas getting together etc. Now these two works are no longer compatibile because I wrote alternative versions of Cas losing his grace and Dean and Cas getting together for this one ( both of these things happen in the other work in a different way), but I guess you still might find the other one interesting. The title is "Whatever choices you make".**

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He should not have stopped. He thought he could lie his way through the cordon, and he much preferred it to trying to yomp it, but it was a mistake. He should have at least tried. After all, he'd taken one of the old pickups that rotted in Bobby's yard in case he would need to ram something or withstand shooting. He should have tried.

He rolls the window down to hear a big, ageless man clad in full battle gear yell:

"Get out of here!"

Dean can hardly recognize a human in the boxy form covered in kevlar, carbon fiber and camo. His voice is so raucous that it rises over the turmoil of screams and car horns of crowd running away from where Dean was heading, mixed with the roar of engines and rotors of military choppers above their heads.

"I just need to find someone and I'll join another group further south," Winchester tries to negotiate; the man adjusts his hold on his machine gun and gestures with his head, calling someone up. Another soldier, identical to the first one save for the rank, comes closer.

"What's up, Cody?"

"Sir, this man here is…" "I just need to.." The younger soldier and Dean begin in unison.

"Get out of the car," Comes a dispassionate order from the commander.

"So how do I get to Cleveland?"

"You don't. Get out of the car."

Tension scintillates between them for a moment before it discharges in a harsh yap:

"Out. Now."

Black void of a gun barrel pointed directly at his face gives him no choice.

The moment the door closes behind his back, he realizes how bad the situation looks. He needs to be over there, behind the line of military outposts, armored carriers and makeshift barricades, but he's helpless against the current of an endless river of people. He starts to drift with it, herded and rushed by the army. None of them has the slightest idea what was happening. None of them will understand.

No. He has to try.

"I'm telling you, I can fend for…"

He is cut off by the commander's snarl:

"Sure, honey. Evacuation is mandatory. State of emergency. Rings a bell?"

"I have to find someone," Dean balances between anger and fear, "Cas is there," he adds, as if it means anything, "He's my…" he stammers, stunned by how fake 'friend' would feel. There is only one word in Dean's vocabulary that would describe what Cas means to him, how much he needs to find him; he offers it to the soldier like a prayer, desperately hoping that the man can relate, "He's my brother."

"Listen, missy. I don't give a damn who he is. Hotline for relatives will be up in hours, now get the hell out of here or I'll make you."

Winchester bites back a furious snort.

"Hotline," he grinds out under his breath, "as if he knew how to use a damn phone."

"What is he, challenged?" the commander bares his teeth in an ugly smirk, "Then you might as well stop looking. I hear some serious crap went down in Detroit and Cleveland. I don't think a retarded brat got out alive."

So Dean does the only thing that is left to do: punches these teeth as hard as he can.

-x-X-x-

He wakes up in a moving coach full of refugees, handcuffed to the headrest of the seat in front of him. It takes him some time to take in the surroundings and when he finally does, he feels an ice-cold weight of a realization pin him to the ground.

Cas doesn't have a name, no ID, nothing. No way Dean can find him.

They haven't agreed on any aliases.

Cas is going to look for Dean Winchester. They're going to tell him that Dean Winchester is dead.

After a moment of sheer terror the hunter remembers Bobby. Robert Singer. A proper name, a proper address, even a landline. If everything else fails, they'll meet at Bobby's. They're okay.

It's not until his pulse slows down a bit that Dean realizes he hasn't been breathing.

-x-X-x-

The staircase is the best viewpoint. It doesn't give much scope, but it lets one observe those that are moving. It's a bottleneck; people move slowly, elbowing one another, yelling and swearing, but at least it organizes the flow of refugees flooding a school building which has been adapted as a temporary shelter; it stops them from meandering aimlessly in a chaotic search for any familiar face, for anyone who could know, who could at least give them hope.

Every once in a while someone shouts out a name and tries to break through the thick, grinding crowd. Sometimes when he or she finally manages to do it, two people throw themselves into each other's arms, crying out in joy. Sometimes he or she comes to an abrupt halt a few meters from the other person and looks down to hide the disappointment.

Dean can''t imagine how much his own heart would race until he catches a glimpse of the familiar unkempt dark-chocolate hair and recognizes this springy, but hesitant walk. Something is wrong though. There's no sign of beige or black, there's gray and denim blue instead, but it's Cas. Yes, Dean can now finally see his profile, the man doesn't turn around, he doesn't see Dean, but there's no way Dean could mistake this head tilt or the way that man looks around, lost and curious at the same time; it's Cas, so Dean shouts out his name and runs down the stairs, elbowing people, ramming them, clawing through the tangle of sweaty bodies until he can finally reach out and…

The blood runs cold in his veins; his limbs feel limp and heavy. He freezes with his hand hovering inches from the man's shoulder. It looks so much like the scene from his nightmares he's been having for days now. Cas turning around to greet him, pulling him into a hug, then letting go to move away for an arm's length, blinking to reveal cold, black eyes.

"Christo," the hunter chokes out. Cas twitches, turns around, looks at him, confused and dazed until disbelief, relief, joy and fondness flash through his face. He tilts his head slightly; his brows knot as if he was asking 'really? even now?' and the hunter doesn't even have to look at the anti-possession charm Cas presents to know that it's him, it's really him. Dean staggers forward, pulling the angel into a hug.

"I prayed to you," he breathes into the mess of those dark hair, "Every night. Haven't you heard me?"

"I am so sorry," the angel replies timidly when they finally break the embrace, "I fell faster and lower than I thought I would. I won't be of much use."

Now that he's crossed finding Cas out of the list of the most urgent matters he'd have to deal with, the awareness of the rest of them hits him with a double force.

"Where the hell is Michael? What's his plan now? Sucker didn't answer my prayers either."

Cas's takes a step back, his eyes darken. He casts his eyes down to gather himself before he can look at Dean again and when he does, there's no sign of joy.

"Michael and the rest of the angels… They left. Fled. Dean, we are on our own. I don't think we can win this time. It's over."

Fear and anger make Dean's lips thin, but despite himself he tries to keep himself from breaking:

"Bullshit, Cas. We'll figure something out," he pats Cas shoulders warily. Distance between them starts to grow, "Are you coming?"

After an instant of hesitation, the angel straightens up, lifts his chin. His gaze lingers on Dean's face, hopeful, searching, full of disbelief, almost of wonder. It seems that he's found what he was looking for, because he nods decidedly. Only his jaws clenching for an instant and a slightest flutter of his eyelids give away his anxiety.

"Of course."

-x-X-x-

There is something humiliating about being confined in a coach, forced to accept the driver's own lazy tempo and style, to sit close to other people who chat, eat, sleep, snore, cough, get sick and smell. The smell is the worst. It's nothing defined, nothing sharp or standing out, nothing he could put his finger on, but Dean feels the fug soaking into his lungs and skin, making it itch, making him feel dirty.  
He has to accept moving in the wrong direction too - away from where he needs to be, from Lucifer. He has to know his plan if he is to react in any way. There is nothing Cas could do - his grace is now just a tiny flicker. It doesn't even suffice to keep the fallen angel immortal, let alone let him fly. All they can do is to sit side by side, let themselves be escorted by the army in an overburdened coach and try to be ready to act whenever an opportunity presents itself.

That's why they immediately shake off the slackness and sit bolt upright when the coach comes to an abrupt halt in the middle of a section of the road winding through a forest. Dean hears loud questions and commands coming from the humvee that preceded the coach in the column. Raised voices from another army vehicle that was closing the column follow soon after. Multiple pairs of funky eyes follow him as he walks down the aisle to see what happened. Just as he takes the view in, he hears a stifled curse just behind his back - he doesn't know the language, but he is sure it is a curse from the tone of it. Cas, who has followed him, must have realized the same.

And there is no way the soldiers will know what to do. They're so disoriented at first that they don't even mind Dean, who pulls the emergency door release despite the driver's protest and joins the men standing next to their vehicle, staring sheepishly at the group of people blocking the road.

Except that these are not people. Winchester recognizes that empty stare, that slight swaying and stiff shoulders. Croats. He exchanges a quick look with Cas, who found himself right beside him in a second. The angel seems concerned, but not too afraid; Dean realizes that he must underestimate human stubbornness. Two or thee dozen Croats are not a problem if you have machine guns and grenades, but said weapons are now in the hands of people who will probably do more harm than good. Winchester feels like he is treading on thin ice.

Even those, who have never seen infected people before sense something sinister. The silence can't mean anything good. A young soldier, the humvee's driver, sinks into his seat; Three others, who have exited the car, kick their heels nervously to mask taking small, but deliberate steps back. Their grip on their assault rifles is so tight that their knuckles go white.

"I said identify yourselves!" the older one shouts out again, but there's hesitation in his voice now, "What are you doing here?"

"They won't answer," Dean offers as calmly as he can.

"What? Who do you think you are?"

"They're sick. Infected. Incurable," the hunter explains, "It's a rare virus, but there might be a big outbreak," he adds, having noticed dubiousness in the soldier's look.

"How do you know?"

"I've seen it before. It's a rare motherfucker, but it spreads fast."

"It makes people violent," Cas adds.

The soldier exhales sharply through his nose - Winchester wishes he knew what it could mean. The man seems to be hesitant, though. It is a good sign. It means that he doesn't disregard what Dean said right away.

"Come over, we've got a situation here!" the commander yells towards the other vehicle crew, then turns to his the men standing near him, "We need to contain them..." he states, seeking eye contact with his subordinates. They nod slightly, uncertain as to what exactly the commander could mean. Containing is a nice, big word, but it means nothing when one is standing face to face with a group of irresponsive, potentially dangerous civilians. Especially when a stir moves through the group of Croats and they start walking towards the group of people - slowly, but steadily.

"You need to fight them," Dean barks. The situation is hanging by a thread.

"I won't open fire to U.S. citizens!" the commander announces sharply, pressingly, as if he had to convince himself.

Dean hear Cas turn abruptly; he follows his cue to see the coach driver standing on the entrance's lowest step.

"Oh, honey, I am afraid you won't have to..." he says as he raises his hand. Though the man is huge, obese and in his fifties, Dean recognizes Meg's honeyed voice right away. He also recognizes her cold, cruel smirk that looks so wrong on a man's stubbly face when she turns to look at the hunter, "I really shouldn't be there, but you see, I have always had a thing for your family. Great Dean Winchester is about to go down. I couldn't miss it, could I? Luckily, my father gave me a day off. By the way, he looks stunning in his new meat..."

There's an unrest among the soldiers, but the tableau holds, disturbed only by the scuff of the Croat's steady walk. Thoughts swarm in Dean's head - he could convince the soldiers that Croats posed a threat, but they won't help him against the driver. He tries to remember the interior of the coach - where he placed his scarce belongings, where he could find water or silver - but it gets irrelevant when the first gunshot rips the silence.

He gets down, pulled by Cas just as the chaos breaks out. Guns start to roar at once. A series coming from the other Humvee scuffs up sparks from the tailgate of the vehicle on the front - it is something neither Dean, nor the soldiers expected, so all remnants of order snap. The coach is caught in a disordered crossfire; Winchester hears groans of pain all but drowned out by the thundering clatter of machine guns. He wants to scramble to all fours, but Cas holds him down firmly.

"We need to get my blades," he hisses right to Dean's ear, pushing him slightly towards the vehicle's open door. Winchester crawls inside - the Humvee driver would know where the confiscated weapons are, so Dean tries to wring it out from him, but all he gets is a panicked look. Horror makes the driver - the kid, because he's not older than twenty - completely mute. Dean follows his blank stare to see smudges of black smoke swarming over the road.

Out of the corner of his eye he sees Cas make a dive for the coach; even through the screams and gunshot clatter he can hear him yell:

"Pray! Do you hear me? They can't possess a man or woman who is praying... If you want to live, people, pray!"

Just as he starts a frantic search of the car's interior for his confiscated weapons, more cries of pain start coming from inside the coach.

-x-X-x-

The silence that falls after the last demon dies at the angel blade in Dean's hand is deafening. The hunter stands still for a while, panting and swearing under his breath, before he can straighten up to take a look around.

The road is strewn with dead bodies of Croats, soldiers and many civilians who ran out of the coach in panic; blood stains the clothes and puddles underneath most of them, but some people just lay there with their eyes wide open and their mouths burned out by demons who killed them from the inside. There were just six of them - Meg and those who possessed the crew of the other humvee, but they jumped from host to host so fast that Winchester wasn't even sure where they were. He remembers killing three and seeing Cas kill two, so Meg must have fled, but he doesn't even have the strength to care. One look at the angel, who is standing a few dozen feet down the road with an angel blade dripping with blood in his hand lets Dean know that Cas feels the same.

He's about to throw the child-soldier's dead body from the driver's seat and try to hotwire the humvee when a high, modulated sound catches his attention. It's coming from inside the couch. Winchester sneaks inside, his blade ready, carefully stepping over bodies that encumber the aisle. As he is getting closer, he can discern words of a prayer, muttered over and over by a girl who sits stiff in her seat, shell-shocked.

Dean hesitantly places a hand on her shoulder; she jolts, then casts him a scared look, but she gathers herself quickly - surprisingly quickly for someone who has just witnessed at least seventy people slaughter each other for no reason.

" It's okay, you're safe," Dean allays her, "I'm not one of them."

"Prove it," she snaps. Her eyes grow wide when the hunter cuts his own forearm with the blade he was wielding, but she nods with understanding as fresh blood starts dripping from the cut. Winchester guesses that she has already psyched out that demons bleed russet light instead of blood. She must have observed that much.

"My name is Dean," he doesn't offer his hand, which is still covered in the demon's and Croat's blood, "and that little guy there, it's Cas."

"Risa. Risa Rivera," the girl replies, still eyeing Dean with slowly melting distrust.

"Okay, Risa. We need to get you to safety."

As he staggers out of the coach he starts to realize how exhausted he is. His legs buckle beneath him just as he reaches the first Humvee's front door, so he pulls himself onto the seat using his arms. Cas and Risa join him soon after. He forces his muscles to work in unison so that he can take a few deep, deliberate breaths, working his own body like it was a separate being. Steadying his breath has never been so difficult.

Before he drives off, he takes one final look at the carnage. He realizes he should feel something, he should feel guilt, fear, he should be sorry for the victims, disgusted at the puddle of blood on the upholstery, he shoud at least be ashamed for not trying to bury the dead; he knows that these feelings will eventually come, they will bring nausea, sleepless nights, and fever, he will writhe, retch and sweat for hours, but for now there is nothing but the dull pain throbbing in his muscles. It's almost like his soul snapped, caved in on itself under the weight of what he had to see. He feels nothing.


	12. Chapter 12

**Another deadone1013's request - what happened in Cas and Dean's cabin after Paige and her child went full Croat and were killed.**

 **I know it was supposed to be lighter, but this piece kinda crawled out of my head onto the keyboard on its own... I'm still mildly proud of it. Anyway... yeah. dark, painful, full of triggers. Even I am impressed by how twisted and unpleasant it came out.**

 **If you like Endverse, don't forget to check hoellenwauwau's endverse fic. It fits nicely with the canon and it's not that hopeless, though still far from fluffy.**

* * *

Dean walks up the stairs slowly, feeling his heart sink with every step. His hands are cold; there is this unnerving, stomach-turning quiver thrumming inside him, making him stop every couple of seconds to force himself to take one deeper breath, because otherwise his shivering muscles make his chest move, but can't even fill his lungs with air.

He lets out a barely audible sigh of relief at the sight of Cas standing by the window. Moon's blueish light dimmed by scarce clouds seep through dirty glass of windowpanes to highlight the man's craggy, weary face, his thinned lips and pale eyes that seem even larger than usually.

Cas's face looks almost white in this light; on this lurid, cadaverous skin Dean can see a streak of black, dripping down from a corner of Cas's mouth, smeared on his cheek; he clenches his fist at the memory of slapping the fallen angel. Driven by instinct, his gaze wanders lower to check on Cas's hands – they're still wrapped in bandage and there's little blood seeping through the faded, tattered fabric. It's a good sign.

"How many?" Cas asks simply; Dean staggers back, lost and shocked at the moony, bleak tone. Something is pushing him to come closer, to put his hand on his lover's shoulder, to explain, but fear stops him in his tracks. He knows Cas enough to sense that this peace is faked, that there is a turmoil of rage and despair underneath its taut surface.

"Annie and Ben, Hans, Carla, little Megan…" Dean goes over the list of victims; names and faces ache in his memory like fresh burns.

Cas turns slowly; the movement is lazy, almost dreamy, but the leader notices the slight shaking of the hand Cas uses to support himself against the windowsill.

"The baby?" the fallen angel asks and all Dean has to do is to nod.

Suddenly, Cas lets go of the windowsill; he takes a couple of shaky, unsure steps across the cabin only to sway and be held steady by Dean.

"Hey, what do you think…."

"I need to see them," the shorter man drawls out, "let me go."

"You're not going anywhere. Not now."

"Dean, let me go!"

Winchester can feel his friend go tense in his embrace in a second; the steady, firm pressure of muscles that are shivering slightly. He adjusts his hold while Cas tries to regain balance; he succeeds sooner than Dean expected and a stubborn tug-of-war transforms into real wrestle. It takes all Dean's strength to keep Cas in place.

"Let me go," Cas spits out every word, wrenching his gnarly, lean arms from Dean's hold. His shirt tear in the process. In the last possible moment Dean trips him up; they both hit the wooden floor in the same second and the leader uses his quick reflexes to straddle his friend and grip his wrists.

"For fuck's sake, man!" he breathes into Cas's face; his own fury flurrying in his chest is what lets him withstand the angel's glare.

"I said, let me go."

They stay like this for seconds, minutes; the fallen angel closes his eyes, stills in Dean's hold, shields himself from reality with a veil so thick that Dean's furiously hissed profanities can't pierce it. His breath slows down and after a while the leader isn't sure if his lover is still conscious.

"Cas, damnit. Talk to me."

Blue eyes snap open. Dean's breath hitches at the sight; he has never seen such rage, not in Cas, not in a demon, not even in himself.

"Cas, I'm not letting you out of here until… until the guys take care of everything."

The angel's snarl is like a red-hot whip across his face.

"Why? You think I can handle the sight of a dead body?"

The leader bites back an insult.

"You're not yourself." he says instead.

A bitter, breathed "uhm" it the only answer.

Cas's taut body relaxes gradually and Dean recognizes the moment when he can let go. He sits up on his heels, letting the fallen angel pull his legs in and kneel on the floor. They stay in this ridiculous poise, staring at each other with grudge and distrust until Cas tilts back a bit, eyes Dean with a quizzical expression, mixed emotions contort his face and the leader knows that the man is about to snap, but he might burst into laughter as well as break down crying – Dean can't tell.

"There's blood on your shirt," he states instead; sprouting insanity making the corners of his lips twitch in a slight smirk, "and on your hands."

"It's yours," Dean explains with an exasperated sigh, because he knows exactly what the angel found so funny. To his horror, Cas bares his teeth and throws his head back; a cruel, ragged, bestial laughter rolls through the night's silence; it boils in his throat, ugly and wet, making his half-bare chest quiver until it leaves him breathless. Dean leaps forward to pull Cas's shoulders and make him straighten up; the face he sees when Cas finally does is frightening, almost demonic.

"Cas, hey, look at me," the leader clasps Cas's jaw to steady his head; the angel still smiles against Dean's grip that is so tight it will surely leave bruises; echoes of that terrifying laughter still shake his whole body, "Or not," Dean growls, pushing Cas's head away with disgust, so hard that the angel sways back and has to sit on his heels again. The leader scrambles to his feet, ready to walk away when he hears commotion behind his back; he spins around in time to block Cas's blow; instincts kick in, so he uses the momentum to wrench Cas's arm and throw the angel against a wall.

He growls, pushing Cas's chest with a flat hand.

"You do that again, and I swear I'll…"

"You'll what?" the fallen angel cries out into his face, "What will you do that you haven't already done to me?"

Cas crouches, frightened by the sound when Dean's fist hits the wall next to his head. The leader stares ahead blankly, right at the spot where he has seen Cas's face a moment before. There's a black smudge there now – blood from the back of Cas's head – shiny and wet against the old, rough planks.

He takes a step back, kneels next to his lover, puts a shaky hand on his shoulder, traces the angled line of his arm that covers Cas's head.

The fallen angel relaxes, leans into the touch, seeks it until Dean's hand finds Cas's cheek, until his fingers trace the curve of Cas's neck to rest on his shoulder. There's more compassion than pain now in Cas's eyes when their gazes finally meet.

"Don't you even talk about it. Ever." Dean whispers dryly. Cas doesn't even have to nod to let him know that it's over. Water under the bridge. Another thing they will never bring up. Another wound they will never forget.

The leader helps his lover up and half-leads, half-carries him to the bead. When they finally settle down he takes a quick look around to make sure that there is no shard of glass around; he unstraps his thigh holster and puts it on the floor far on his side of the bed along with the gun that's still tucked in it, then does the same with the sheathed knife in his pocket and the butterfly one he has in his boot. Cas observes him with a blank, void look.

They lie down on their sides, Dean behind Cas's back. It's almost morning and despite the fear and disgust still gnawing at his guts Dean is slowly giving in to that dry, sandy, heavy weariness that makes his spine hurt and his vision blur. He weaves the fingers of one hand into Cas's hair and wraps the other around his waist, then throws one leg over Cas's legs. A slow, sad sigh makes the angel's back grind against Dean's chest. The morning chill crawling along Dean's back makes him twitch; the warmth trapped between their bodies burns like drops of molten iron.


	13. Chapter 13

**I'm uploading two chapter today, because it's a kind of finale (and Supernatural finales are always two-episode long)... If you have made it so far you probably know that this work is dark as hell and designed solely to torture the reader with the worst kind of pain, tragedy, angst and all, but there is a warming here anyway:**

 **Major character's death.**

 **Musical dare: "Wind of change" by Scorpions**

* * *

Chuck is a bit startled by urgent knocking on his doors. So startled, in fact, that it takes him a while to struggle free from the blanket he was wrapped in and then disentangle rags heaped on the floor next to his cot in pursuit of something to wear. Having made himself presentable he opens the door to see Cas leaning against the door frame. He's already clad in his battle gear: soiled worker's boots, loose jeans, his favorite cotton tunic and one of the job lot of almost identical heavy duty jackets that Dean hoarded like a maniac because they always got ruined within weeks of wrangling with Croats and trolling through the woods. The prophet gives his friend an uneasy once-over, huffing a half-amused sigh at his own thoughts. The jacket is obviously too large for the little, wiry man. Of course he would have never snatched such an outfit for himself - he liked soft, flowing fabrics, not those asbestic-like, boxy armors Dean values. There's an uzi hanging loosely on a greasy strap on his left shoulder and two banged up Berettas on both sides of his belt. And there is something sombre about him, something so dark and cold that Chuck loses the track of time for a couple of seconds; he just stares at Cas, wrapped up in a tuneless, lightless haze until Cas tilts his head and lifts a corner of his mouth ever so slightly. The prophet gets that Cas doesn't understand what got him so taken aback, but even without understanding Chuck's feeling he is already poised to ridicule it. He decides to follow the cue.

"Ugh, Cas, you look like ass..." the man remarks warily.

"Of course I do. I am wasted and high..." the angel chuckles; the dark spell is lifted in no time, leaving Chuck one to one with the well-known tangle of old, aching scars, vitriolic sense of humor, and a touch of abderian insanity, "and I haven't showered since yesterday morning. But what matters is that I did one random act of kindness just for you, my special friend."

The fallen angel pokes Chuck on the chest with his index finger, then muscles into the cabin.

"I've convinced Hannah and Rachel that a threesome is the only way for a woman to fully explore the profundity of her sexual energy," Cas explains, gesturing fulsomely "Meeting the astral projection of her anima and animus at the same time. You should go for it. Thank me later," he frowns, pinches his lower lip and looks up in a goofy pantomime meaning that he has just said something stupid "Or don't. Anyway, you're welcome."

The prophet looks at his friend askance.

"Aaaand... You wake me up in the middle of the night to tell me this?"

Cas takes his time to answer Chuck's half-angry, half-concerned remark. His chest heaves in a slow, deep indrawn breath. He seems to sober up within seconds; intoxication or whatever it was that made him act like a spiteful jester drains from his body in one pained, long sigh.

"This might be the last occasion," he says softly.

A terrible realization burgeons in Chuck's stomach; the swirling, chilling sensation of free fall intensifies when he rises his head to look into his friend's eyes, and behind the icy glaze of studied indifference he sees dark velvet of distant, reconciled sorrow.

"Might?" his voice is more whimpering and brittle than he'd like it to be, "Might? Are... are you...?" a slight twitch of Cas's jaw muscles confirms Chuck's misgivings; he starts to stammer "Wh... Oh, God. You... you know it is. Oh, God..."

Silence swells around them like a billow, engulfs them, makes Chuck's chest feel heavy, but empty. He holds on to the angel's peaceful gaze, lets himself be drawn to it, soothed by it until he can keep his own breath in check again.

The fallen angel takes something out from his chest pocket, then grabs Chuck's hand and slips the thing into it, closing Chuck's fist around the hardness of metal warmed up by Castiel's body heat and softness of a coiled, oily lash. The man rises his eyebrows in an unspoken question.

Cas clears his throat. His lower lip flutters when his unfocused gaze slides over the trees and cabins veiled by thin, ominous fog.

"I thought that if maybe, just maybe someone survives this will help you remember."

"Why me? I mean I'm just... I'm just a guy..."

The man unknowingly shakes his head and takes a step back, but Cas follows him, almost pinning him to the cabin's thin, damp, moldy wall.

"You know him. In a way you've known him longer than I have," he adjures, "You understand. There has to be someone who remembers him as a good man."

"Cas, man..."

"Please," he reaches for Chuck's hand that is still clasped around the amulet and gives it a brief, firm squeeze, then turns away.

Chuck slowly works up the courage to say something, but Cas is already on his way to the rally point. The prophet follows his friend into the night, trying not to snap on the way. He wants to stop him, to ask, plead, but before he manages to find proper words his throat is knotted and his eyes sting; he knows his voice would break if he tried to call out to his friend, so he just walks, haunted by an ice-cold certainty that the meters that separate him from the gravel driveway where the cars wait, ready to drive off, are his last chance to say something, to change something; that otherwise he will regret not taking the shot for the rest of his life . Halfway there he resolves that there is no point in trying not to sound weird. He shouts out despite the lump that makes his voice sound wailing and silly:

"But what... What about the others?"

Cas stops, but doesn't turn to face his friend. He waits for Chuck to catch up before answering:

"They suspect, I guess. But hey," he sniggers bitterly "they think we're saving the world. The won't live long enough to be disappointed. Perhaps it's the best fate a man can face now."

Having said that Cas resumes his brisk, hell-bent pace. The prophet tries to get in his way, piteously aware that his own height and posture make him look like a puppy barking at a mailman.

"And you? Can't you stay?"

The angel spins around in one smooth motion to come to an abrupt halt facing Chuck; the prophet's face almost bumps into his chest. He has to take a step back and rise his chin to see that the other man's expression indicates that he is sincerely astonished.

"Of course I can," Cas replies with a hint of amusement, darting a searching glance at his friend, and it's all it takes for Chuck to understand everything.

His whimpering groan makes Cas bristle a bit. The prophet can sense that his friend is considering adding an angry remark, but instead, the fallen angel takes a deep, calming breath. His expression softens, he even makes a move like he intended to place his hand on Chuck's shoulder, but in the end his hand just falls limply onto his thigh.

"Chuck, you're missing the point. You think I will die at sunrise, but I...we..." he drags his hands down his face as if he wanted to wipe away last remnants of this mask of scorched bitterness he's been living with for months, "We haven't been alive for a long time," he admits in a bewilderingly mellow voice, "Instead, we become this. The only thing I think we have left, Dean and me, is each other," Cas bites his lower lip and lowers his gaze in an expression painfully reminiscent of juvenile abashment. It seems that merely mentioning the name brightens up Cas' face with a warm, serene smile and lights sparks in his eyes, "If Dean says it's time to go out in a blaze of glory, win or lose, so be it. I'm in."

They walk the last meters towards the rally point, approaching cars and men gathered there in silence. Cas waits until all other vehicles dispatch, gets in, closes the door and sticks his head and arm out through the window to give Chuck one last pat on the shoulder.

"You see," he explains with an easy smile, no traces of doubt or grudge left, and despite the signs of fatigue and hardship's he's went through, his face is almost angelic, "that's just how I roll."

He drives off, glancing at the rear view mirror to see Chuck smile back, wave and salute him.


	14. Chapter 14

**Musical dare;**  
 **"Gortoz a ran" from the Black Hawk Down soundtrack (performed by Denez Prigent and Lisa Gerard). Note that there are several versions, because it's a folk song not protected by copyright, but only Denez Prigent's version is worth listening IMHO.**  
 **If you're not into this kind of music, the other options are: "When the smoke is going down" by Scorpions or "Wasting love" by Iron Maiden, but I strongly recommend the first option.**

* * *

Dean wakes up in a motel room. The first thing that dazes him is a soft, light, herbal scent of fresh laundry lingering in the air - something he hasn't felt for a long time. He is neither cold nor in pain; his back rests on something perfectly smooth and soft. A feeling of comfort and safety floods him, makes his body pleasantly heavy and his head drowsy. For a moment he fights the temptation to simply stay like this forever, but his hunter's instinct makes him shake off sleepiness and sit up. As soon as the dizziness eases out he takes a look around. Much to his own amazement he sees a perfectly normal motel room - normal to the pre-apocalypse era, without bars or barbed wire in the windows; clean, recently redecorated. Good, bright and safe.

"You're awake finally," Dean hears a pleasant, somewhat hoarse baritone. From the tone he can tell that the man who speaks is smiling. It takes him a while to recognize the voice, though. He jolts up and almost surges towards the source, but the sight stops him in tracks. Thrill hits him like a wave, welling up in his chest, making his heart skip a beat, but it is tainted with a bitter gut feeling that something is wrong.

"You..."

He manages only to mouth this word without making any sound, but the man takes a few steps towards Dean anyway, staring at him with a peculiar mixture of curiosity and confusion, tilting his head in an unnatural, bird-like tic.

It is Castiel. Not Cas. Castiel in his beige trench coat, white shirt and loose blue tie. Castiel with his hair in a mess just like back then when he hadn't yet grasped the idea of grooming the vessel he was possessing. Castiel with an inept attempt of grin on his youthful, smooth face; his eyes aren't bloodshot, there is no sign of aging, sunburn or scars that made Cas's face so human.

"Wh... What are you doing here?" Dean finally manages to force a question through his cramped throat.

"I thought you and Sam might use some help with that rugaru. I have some downtime. Accept my apologies for appearing out of nowhere. I keep forgetting it makes you uncomfortable.

Whatever energy He had bleeds from Dean's veins, leaving empty space that throbs with dull pain. The crushing weight of realisation pins him down; he has to sit down again and hide his face in his palms. He couldn't tell if the whole world really stopped around him or it was just his head shutting out every sight and sound. The veil separating him from this fake reality, the vortex of anger and despair rising around him, locking him inside his own mind is almost palpable.

After what feels like eternity his rage comes down a bit. He hears the door creak, but he doesn't even care to look in that direction. Scent of cheap cologne foreruns the newcomer like a herald.

"You sucker, you fucking asshole, you dickhead..." Dean drawls out, trying to choke back nausea that quakes his gut.

"No need to thank me," Zachariah boasts merrily, "I admit that restoring heaven required a certain effort, but that's what friends do, isn't it? Anyway, you're welcome."

It takes all Dean's willpower to stifle a growl. Disgust and rage make him want to spit Zachariah in the face, but he has to swallow the pride and ask. He needs to know.

"Where is Sammy?"

"Just where he belongs. In Hell, of course."

Dean curls up as if he'd been hit in the stomach.

"And Mom? Dad?"

"If memory serves, they are together," Zachariah scratches his huge bald head in a gesture that is so fake that there is no doubt that he knows exactly what happened to the Winchesters, "Oh, by the way, they are with you, or at least they believe so," he straightens up, gloating in Dean's horror, "You see, it is forbidden to present those who rest in the Fields of the Lord with any sources of torment. They have been blessed with their own version of you. A better one. One that has not shed blood in Hell. One that has not brought the End upon the World. One that has not broken an angel."

The silence that falls after Zachariah's explanation vibrates with white-hot, barely restrained rage.

"Cas?" Dean can't force much more through his knotted throat. Even whispering this one syllable hurts.

"Oh, you must realize that angels don't have souls. Becoming human didn't grant him one. The moment those croats dug their dirty fingers into his chest and ripped his lungs out, he - poof - ceased to exist. There was nothing left of him but the mortal shell for these creatures to defile," Dean has an impression that the angel relishes revealing this piece of news. He stands up and gives Zachariah a dark glare; a glare of a tortured soul would give his carnifex. All these years of false hope, strain, humiliation, bleeding, screaming his lungs out in pain... A cloud of dark energy discharges in the room, making Zachariah take a step back, wiping the sleazy smirk off his pudgy face. The angel rises his hands in a gesture of surrender.

"Well, I'll leave you here. Enjoy your afterlife..."

The next second he is gone. The wall merges and smoothens in the place where the door has been a moment before.

Castiel moves. He takes two bottles of beer from the fridge and offers one to Dean and the second to Sam- happy, young, careless Sam - who has just appeared next to the counter.

Dean reaches out for the bottle, but clasps his fingers on Castiel's wrist instead. This sad mockery of his Cas does not laugh, does not fight back, just cocks his head sheepishly. Dean grips Castiel's wrist so tight he is sure he would leave bruises on a real man, but it is not a man. The look of these unearthly blue, blank, soulless eyes skims the surface of Dean's mind, unable to pierce it, to see his soul. Perfectly safe in his own mind, alone in a crowded room Dean stares into Castiel's lifeless eyes and doesn't even try to stop tears rolling down his cheeks.

* * *

The lyrics of Gortoz a ran translated from Breton into English.  
 _I was waiting, waiting for a long time_

 _In the dark shadow of grey towers_

 _In the dark shadow of grey towers_

 _In the dark shadow of rain towers_

 _You will see me waiting forever_

 _You will see me waiting forever_

 _One day it will come back_

 _Over the lands, over the seas_

 _The blue wind will return_

 _And take back with it my wounded heart_

 _I will be pulled away by its breath_

 _Far away in the stream, wherever it wishes_

 _Wherever it wishes, far away from this world_

 _Between the sea and the stars_

* * *

 **Author's note**

 **I do realize that "a collection of one-shots" does not sound like the description of someone's opus magnum, but this work is so far my most cherished child. That's why I'd like to thank all of you who accompanied me on this journey: those, who commented, requested, followed and faved, and the lurkers who checked this work out from time to time (yeah, I can see you guys in the traffic stats ;) thank you for staying tuned!**

 **Besides, that's why I feel I need to explain one thing.**

 **I know that this work was heavy on angst, emotional abuse and dark feelings. I was trying to balance out this total, painful desperation with staying true to the canon, which is not that heavy (although, you know, The End kinda is). Anyway, I like the original characters for being so complex and so not black-or-white. I was trying to capture them as accurately as I could here, but I fear I might have gotten carried away; I have a feeling that sometimes the story here is oversimplified, with Dean being the bad guy and Cas being the good guy. That was not my intention.**

 **In my opinion, each of them has his flaws and weaknesses - Dean is obviously emotionally constipated, jaded and easily aggravated; he resorts to violence whenever he feels helpless, and Apocalypse makes him feel helpless quite a lot. Cas, on the other hand, is an example of victim mentality, which is expressed by his this peculiar penchant for passive aggression, guilt tripping and poking at Dean's insecurities. I tried to draw a picture of a toxic, no-win relationship in which both sides are equally incompetent, and in which neither side knows how to deal with the tragedy they are facing. I doubt that I managed to do it properly, so please let me know how you feel about it. I won't get mad or post nasty comments under your works out of spite if you write that my plan went south and that the story was totally Evil!Dean and CasWhump ;) Honest criticism is always welcome here.**


	15. Bonus-alternative ending

**Here is the alternative ending I promised to you guys. Let me know what you think.**

 **I used the licentia poetica to make the Colt effective against archangels, because otherwise this ending wouldn't make any sense. The first paragraphs are pretty dark, but I promise it's a happy ending.**

 **Thank you all for reading, commenting, following and faving!**

* * *

"There. Second-floor window. We go in there." the Leader points at a dirty, cracked windowpane of Jackson County Sanitarium. Risa gives him a dubious look, then glances at Cas. It takes all of his willpower not to avert his eyes.

"You sure about this?"

"They'll never see us coming," Cas's heart sinks at the thought of how easy lying comes for Dean, "Trust me. Now, weapons check. We're on the move in five."

The fallen angel closes his eyes, leaning back against an abandoned car. The first rays of rising sun have warmed up the maroon bodywork just like they are warming up Cas's face. He has already checked his weapons and is waiting for Dean to give a signal to charge.

Five minutes. That's all they have left.

They all stand up slowly, still shielded by a low bush and an upturned van. Dean casts a quick, frightened glance at his lover, but Cas has already made up his mind. They have agreed that is has to be him, that the rest of the squad would follow no other.

There is something horrifying in the way the rest of the hunters still can't believe that their leader would do such a thing. Of course they don't trust him anymore; they have no illusions about his regard for life or his methods. They have no doubt that Dean wouldn't hesitate to send them right into a trap if it brought him closer to accomplishing his goal, but they hope that madness hasn't blinded him so much that he would sacrifice the only one he really cares about.

That's why they search his face for any hints of doubt of regret, any warning sign, but there is none. Dean breathes slowly and easily, his look is calm and focused, his face is inscrutable and as cold as stone.

Cas tries to look reassuring when he places his hand on Dean's left shoulder, but there is something soulful in the way his touch lingers for a second longer than it should.

"All right, let's do this," he nods slightly, trying to catch Dean's gaze, "I'll meet you upstairs."

The leader's brows knot for a moment.

"I'm not ..." he protests, but something he sees in Cas's eyes makes him understand. A slightest possible twitch runs down his jaw and neck, "Yeah. Let's go. Meet you there."

 _-x-X-x-_

 _Dean was the only hunter that came back from the mission. He never told the story of what happened in Kansas; he did not say a word to his comrades._

 _Nobody really dared to ask. All they did was to watch him in silence as he carried two corpses wrapped in dirty, tattered tarpaulin out of his Rover to the Camp's parade ground and prepare funeral pyres._

 _After Sam's and Cas's ashes were buried in shallow graves just outside the Camp, Dean disappeared, having taken only his AK-47, a machete and trunk full of ammo clips with him. He came back three days later, exhausted and wounded._

 _Nobody ever saw him break even a smallest smile or shed a single tear after that day._

 _-x-X-x-_

 _A wave of intensive, chaotic Croat attacks lasted until the end of 2014, but due to the lack of demonic activity and new outbreaks in distant spots it was relatively easy to demarcate high-risk areas and contain existing infection hot zones._

 _Winchester and Bobby spent the following months trying to assess the danger, training hew hunters and restoring the network of psychics, hunters and helpers schooled in herbs, magic and lore._

 _Dean abandoned Camp Chitaqua and went back to his life on the road in the early spring of 2016, after Bobby Singer gave in to pneumonia he had contracted during a particularly harsh winter._

 _He never restored the Impala. Her rusty corpse was left in the Camp to be forgotten along with three simple wooden tombstones._

 _Chuck Shurley left an account of the events from the day he met Dean until the day Lucifer died in a hand-written diary. He kept it locked away along with the amulet Cas had given him. If confronted about it, he always answered that people would be free to do whatever they see fit with it after his death, but he didn't want to see a single word of his scripture published or copied as long as he lived. He joined one of many humanitarian aid groups that were spontaneously mounted to help the survivors and never wrote a single word again._

 _On the 19th of January, 2017, the last case of IAS, or "idiopathic aggressiveness syndrome" in North America was registered, followed by a couple of sparse cases in Middle East and Central Asia. By the end of 2017, complete eradication of IAS was announced by WHO._

 _In 2018 the state of emergency in the U.S.A was countermanded; the gathering ban was lifted and negotiations with Canada and Russia over the restoration of former country borders began. President Palin, who held the office of continuously for nearly 6 years, relinquished her power and the Temporary Governing Council was disbanded. On November the 6th, first presidential election after the crisis was held._

 _A slow, tedious march toward normality started._

 _In 2020 schools reopened, welcoming the first generation of kids born after the crisis. They were not what schools used to be, but at least those who survived could rest assured that the knowledge of generations that preceded them won't be lost._

 _Yet, the world still struggled with the aftermath. Communication, trade and traveling were stymied. The restoration of industry was slowed down due to the lack of skilled engineers and scientists. Health care suffered the same shortage. Hospitals, which had been either looted and demolished or turned into disease research centers governed by the Army struggled to go back on tracks._

 _That's why when Dean learned that this prickling, pulsating pain in his left side was in fact stage III pancreatic cancer, he didn't put up much of a fight._

-x-X-x-

Dean wakes up in a motel room. He lays on the bed for a while, staring at a campy ceiling lamp, trying to anchor himself to reality and stop this wild dizziness that is making his vision blur.

He props himself up on the elbows when the sensation finally stops; a quick look around is enough to let him get familiar with the surroundings. There is not much to see. A bed covered in ugly, pink-and-teal floral bedsheets, a pseudo-rustic table, a divider made of flower-shaped sheets of cheap plywood, a small kitchenette and a window that lets in no sunlight at all. There is no door in sight.

Huh. So that's his resting place.

With a heavy sigh he straightens his arms and is ready to lie down again, but out of the corner of his eyes he notices the drapes move. He stands up and approaches the window cautiously. With a shaky hands he touches the heavy, teal velvet, pulling the drapes apart ever so slowly and gently.

Next second a bony hand yanks his wrist and pulls him out through the window, turning him around in the process; another clasps around his mouth. Dean can sense that the person who overpowered him is shorter and smaller than him, but the shock prevents him from putting up any resistance.

"You're OK," that someone speaks right into ear. The voice is familiar, but Dean can't quite put his finger on it, "Just calm down. Low profile. Ninja mode. Deal?"

After nodding in agreement, he is released and nudged to turn around. He breathes a weak snort at the sight, because he's never thought he could be taken so easily by someone so inexperienced and skinny.

"Ash?"

"No, Pikachu. Of course I'm Ash," the man shakes his head in disapproval, but breaks a smile right after that, "Man, you took your time. Let's move. The path won't be open for eternity."

He turns around and sets off in a determined, brisk pace. Dean follows him for a couple of seconds, but an unnerving thought makes him straggle. Memories and ideas start to crystallize in his dazed mind, making him more and more uneasy. He finally stops.

"Ash, I... that fire. It was my fault. I should have never..."

"Are you kidding me?" Ash spins around and opens his arms, "That's the best thing that ever happened to me. Heaven is superfly. I mean our Heaven," he adds, rolling his eyes, "The one built by angels sucks balls. Anyway, we're cool, all right? One hundred percent kosher. Come on, Dopey," he chivvies Dean along, "the others are waiting!"

-x-X-x-

Dean recognizes Harvelle's Roadhouse from afar, but before he can protest Ash herds him through one of many veils and doors they have passed on their way; the next second Winchester stands right at the roadhouse door. It opens, seemingly by itself.

The worst thing is the smell. The stuffy interior is imbued with tobacco, dust and old, spilled beer like every other pub or bar, but Dean recognizes scents of incense, ginger, seer's sage and goofer dust - no other place in the world smelled like that. An avalanche of memories comes crushing down on him. The dark, smoky, warm air reminds him of home, safety, of the time when he was still young and full of hope; of the people he let down, the people he watched die, the people he never stopped mourning.

He is so overwhelmed that he barely recognizes the first person that approaches him, reaches out and pulls him inside. When he finally does, the world comes to a standstill.

It's Sammy.

Dean tries to find words, but there are none. All he can do is stand there, an arm's length away, and do his best to keep himself from breaking down. He wants to cry, to laugh, to punch that face he has seen jeering him, to hug his little brother, apologize, scream and beat life out of him for letting him down, for leaving him alone, for everything.

"Sam..." he finally rasps, "how is... are you OK?"

The younger brother bows his head, uneasy and guilty.

"Dean, I really thought I could do it. I don't know what I was thinking, I..."

"I wasn't there," Dean cuts him off grimly, matter-of-factly; he sucks in a sharp breath and the moment he tries to say more he realizes that his throat is so knotted that all he can do is to utter a stifled, whimpering whisper, "Sammy, I wasn't there for you. Man, I'm so sorry..."

As is a spell was lifted, Dean suddenly feels it, he feels it all. Pain, joy, guilt, relief, love. He throws his arm around Sam and the moment he hugs this familiar, lanky form he knows that even though it still hurts, one day, after a long, rugged, exhausting road everything will be all right.

With tears in his eyes he lets himself be welcome, hugged and patted by Bobby, Ellen and Jo. He hears Ash explaining that he is still looking for the 'Winchester old folks', but the fact that they aren't there does not bother Dean too much. He wouldn't be ready to meet them anyway. Instead, he searches the dark, hazy interior for someone else, and every second his heart becomes heavier.

It surges up in a crazy flutter when he finally spots a pair of legs in tattered jeans and draggled worker's boots heedlessly rested on a table. He couldn't move even if he wanted. Vertigo keeps him pinned into place. Helpless and terrified, he watches Cas stand up and approach him with a sad smile.

The fallen angel skims a corner of Dean's eye and his temple; he cards his shaky fingers through Dean's hair, watching him with a mixture of curiosity, sorrow, compassion and affection. The man vaguely realizes that he probably looks different, that these last six years of earthly life left him even more wrecked than Cas remembered.

There is a soft undertone of longing in the angel's voice when he says:

"You're late."

Dean cocks his head in bafflement, but a moment later his doubts are crushed, he is engulfed by a wave of warmth and peace. Cas's hand slides up his chest, shoulder and neck to rest on the back of his head and pull him close, so close that Dean feels Cas's breath on his skin. Cas's voice is gravelly and rough, but overflows with joy and love. His words are simple, but Dean knows that they convey so much more.

"We had an appointment."

There are many meanings flickering in this one sentence, some of them Dean does not understand, some of them he might never understand, but he feels that it doesn't matter. All that matters is that he knows this one thing - that he has been forgiven. He has been saved.

* * *

 **Yeah, that's right. Apart from shamelessly stealing lines from "The End" I totally did reference LOTR here, because Aragorn and Legolas are such a cute couple too.**


End file.
